The Move
by Turrislucidus
Summary: What upheaval—perhaps evil—would ensue if the Buckets, house and all, moved into the Chocolate Factory? What secrets would that stir up? Just what, let's see, would the damages be? AU/2005/Angst filled sequel to 'The Interview'. Enjoy!
1. History Repeats

Terence opened his eyes the merest crack. There should be no one in this spartan room above his shop—except him—but waking, he sensed the unmistakable presence of a someone else. Through barely parted lashes, the half-light of dawn proved him right. Willy Wonka, his reclusive friend, was peacefully curled in the winged armchair at the foot of the bed: eyes closed, hat unseen, one end of his Nerd filled walking stick cradled in the crook of a limp arm, the other laid across his tucked up knees, his chest rising and falling rhythmically in sleep.

Terence relaxed. The situation was no cause for alarm, and not happening for the first time. Otherwise unmoving, Terence flicked his eyes to the bedside table. Unlike that time, this time, no little Square-Candy-That-Looks-Round face stared back at him. A sigh of disappointment escaped him.

"I brought you one if you want one," said Willy.

Studiously disguising the fact he'd been startled, Terence transferred his gaze back to the chair, finding Willy's sparkling violet eyes on him like a crow contemplating a shiny trinket. Abandoning his pretense of sleep, Terence sat up. "I was hoping for more than one." What an accomplished sneak Willy was—breaking and entering without a sound—and what a faker. He had me completely fooled. "I was sure you were asleep." Terence had no doubt Willy would make a more than passable fellow spy, if he ever decided to give up this Chocolate Factory thing of his.

A corner of Willy's mouth turned up wryly, pleased with the success of his ruse. Terence was sharp, and not easy to fool. Reaching into his emerald-green, frock coat pocket, Willy genially threw over a handful of Square Candies. "Couldn't sleep." Willy watched as Terence gathered up the candies from the blanket, piling them together in his hand. "Thought a change of scene might help." Alarmingly, it looked as if Terence were planning to eat the entire handful in one gulp. "Ew," Willy squeaked, leaning forward, genuinely appalled. "Don't do that where _I_ can see it! All those little faces! It'd be a massacre!" Willy flopped back, shuddering where he sat.

"Feeling crowded over there at your place, are you?" Terence lowered his hand, smiling. The Factory was huge. And only Willy would describe candy eating as a 'massacre'. "Buckets keeping you hopping? Tearing up the place, are they?" Terence reached toward the nightstand as he talked, stacking the candies, one by one. "Wild parties going on with the Oompa-Loompas, at all hours of the day and night?"

Willy had moved the Buckets into his Factory a few days ago, after Charlie had accepted an apprenticeship, with the Bucket house slated to follow. Terence hadn't seen him since, and you never knew with Willy, how long these absences would last, so it was good to see Willy now, even if Terence couldn't resist needling him, and even if it was the dawn patrol: a time of day not his favorite, when he could be sleeping. Willy must have something on his mind.

Willy rolled his eyes at Terence's irreverent tone, tightening, in feigned disgust, the corner of his mouth so recently engaged in the wry smile. Terence was almost funny, but the reason Willy was here quashed his inclination to enjoy the humor. "No," Willy said, dispiritedly. At least Terence was arranging the candies on the bedside table, and not eating them. "Nothing like that. If anything they're too quiet: they tiptoe around… like they think I'll break, and it creeps me out, but that's not the problem."

"Not Charlie."

Willy stirred, and leaned his walking stick against the chair. "No," he allowed. "Not Charlie. He's a joy. Grandpa George."

"Grandpa George is the problem?"

"No. But he tries to follow me everywhere, like a shadow."

"That's the problem?"

"No. I'm faster."

"So, what's the problem?"

Willy looked pained, his eyes dull. The problem was that _this_ problem, was like _that _problem, and _that _problem was something he'd scrupulously avoided thinking about all his life. Willy didn't want to get near _that _problem now, but because of _this _problem, _that _problem wouldn't take the hint, and kept getting near him, so for _this _problem, he must. Swallowing, Willy shifted uncomfortably, looking for something else to think about, and avoid _that_ problem for one… minute… more… but _that _problem was why he was here. Sighing dejectedly, Willy's eyes settled on the innocuous little Squares. Happily charmed and distracted by what he saw, his mood shifted like sand underfoot: not too much, but enough. Terence had done a nifty thing: he had set up the Square Candies at an angle, so that when Terence spoke, they would look at Terence, and when he spoke they would look at him. The candies were an audience watching a tennis match—back and forth, back and forth—and amused by the arrangement, Willy's eyes again began to sparkle.

"The…" Willy waved his ever-gloved hand in a circular motion in Terence's direction, emphatically impatient, his voice energized, his eyes glued to the candies.

Terence, frowning in consternation at Willy's nervous activity, looked the situation over. It took a minute to catch on, but the candies, he decided, were the clue. Still not completely sure, he tentatively said, "problem…"

"Is…" rejoined Willy quickly, dropping his hand and smiling with satisfaction, watching the soothing little eyes keep time.

"That…"

"You…"

"Have…" a strange improv, but Terence was glad it was working so far.

"No idea how…" Willy's cadence had slowed.

"Much…" Terence was thankful for the lead Willy had given him with the extra words.

"Planning…" Willy's voice was beginning to sound strained.

"It takes…" guessed Terence slowly, feeling the rising tension, his gut tightening.

"Tomoveahouse." With the rapidly jumbled words, barely intelligible, barely out of his mouth, Willy bolted from the chair, scooping his upturned hat from the floor, already half-way to the door.

"STOP!" Terence's voice rang out shockingly, as he quickly leaned forward, smacking a frustrated hand meaninglessly on the blanket. No way Willy would stop. The little Square Candy eyes tried to jump off their little Square Candy faces, as if sharing the sentiment, and the shock, themselves. "IT'S NOT THE SAME!"

Willy stopped as if nailed to the floor. His shoulders were rigid, the velvet fabric of his coat stretched taut across his back. His arms, as rigid as his shoulders, flared a bit from his sides, as if the increased area they occupied would ward off the excruciation he was feeling: had avoided feeling, for as long as he could remember. Hatred felt awful. The fingers of his left hand curled and clenched, crushing the brim of the hat he held to shapelessness, just as the fingers of his right hand curled and clenched around the shaft of his walking stick, attempting to pulverize it, too. He was so close to agony he could almost touch it... almost, and he screamed because he couldn't help himself: 'it's close enough… close enough… CLOSE ENOUGH!' But Terence couldn't hear him, couldn't help him, because it was all happening in his head, and nowhere else. Willy's screams were silent, as, since that long ago day, they always were.

The atmosphere in the room had gone electric; Terence's nerves tensed with alertness, his senses sharpening as his mind raced. The Buckets had no way of seeing this coming, but I should have. Moving house—literally. Willy's father had done it, decades ago, Willy barely older than Charlie was now: moving Willy's house without his knowledge, leaving Willy behind in the process. It was cruel, deliberately cruel… past, but not forgotten, and not as handled as Willy pretends: how horrific for Willy, the victim of the earlier episode, to discover firsthand what planning such an event entailed, and how devastating.

Action was needed—Willy hadn't moved, but his breathing was becoming rapid, and shallow. Touching him was out, in this state Terence doubted Willy could stand it, but Terence must reach him. In a monotone, Terence began talking, not caring what he said, as long as the sound kept coming, an invisible lifeline to pull Willy back from whatever gripped him.

Though despairing the attempt would work, Terence kept it up, and gradually, the gambit had the desired effect. Willy's breathing slowed; he began to hear a faint stream of words, "…not happening now, over, long gone, history, you're fine, this is different, not the same…" He heard the words: over; gone; history; fine. He listened for more. "…You've already licked this one, old sport, left it in the dust, no cause to dredge it up, this is different, it's different, different, not the same, it's not the same…" That was true. Willy liked this stream of talk better than the stream going on in his head. This _was _different. His hands relaxed, the numbness leaving them, his arms and shoulders following. Aware of his surroundings again, Willy studiously brought his hat up to his face, and examined the brim. Turning around, he held the mangled hat toward Terence. "This is toast," he whispered.

"Good man," said Terence, mildly, before he could think. He leaned back. Willy remained where he was, and Terence, encouraged, continued his bid to return the grisly to the mundane. "Good," he said again, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "Now, dear chap, forget about the hat, put one foot in front of the other, slowly, take a deep breath—two if you like—walk back, nonchalantly mind you, to the chair, and sit down." Willy looked steadier. "I know what you mean, have _no_ idea what you're going through, but I know you know I know you have a plan, or you wouldn't be here." Terence smiled reassuringly. "Tell me what it is."

Oh, the relief! Willy felt the warmth being understood brought suffuse his body, and basking in it, he stood motionless a moment longer, letting it build. He felt a smile. "Ya know, ya sound like me."

"Intentionally, dear chap, and it's not easy on short notice," replied Terence breezily. "Thanks for thinking so. I'm hoping it gives me credibility when I say I know what you mean. So sit down already, and spill the beans."

After all the anxiety the changes made in the past few days had brought, Willy gratefully sat down again. If Terence was taking this calamity in stride, he could, too. But having settled himself back in the chair, Willy found he could say nothing, unexpectedly exhausted, and he sat instead, wondering how long it would take for this state to pass. Terence didn't seem to mind in the least, more than content to wait, and so they sat, as the room gradually lightened. After a while, Terence popped a Square Candy in his mouth, crunching down on it unconcernedly. Yuck, thought Willy, watching the small decapitation with horror: but watching the destruction brought back his tongue. "The plan is… you do it."

"Me?" Terence's eyebrows shot up. Willy was talking again, but what he was saying wasn't what Terence was expecting to hear. "You still want to go through with this? Why move it at all? I'm sure the Buckets are perfectly happy where they are, without it. If you ask me, they'll never miss it."

Willy shrugged, less than happy with himself. "_I'll_ miss it, and Bucket-wise, some are, some aren't. I thought, hoped really, I'd be one of the are-s, but I'm definitely one of the aren't-s."

"Is thinking you'd be one of the are-s why you wrecked the place?" Terence may not have seen Willy lately, but he'd moseyed down to the Bucket house the other day to find no Buckets, and a very much enlarged, gaping hole in the already gaping-hole-equipped Bucket roof. The ad hoc renovation rendered the house uninhabitable.

Willy sighed. "Yeah, that was me, but that wasn't why. I had to get them out of there. Doing it made me look bad, but I had no choice. After the grand announcement at that dinner, my expectation was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Buckets at the gates the next morning, but by afternoon, no Buckets, and after school Charlie reported dithering among the grands, about how, and when." Willy shook his head in disbelief, making a face that mirrored it. "Can you imagine? Dilly. And dally. About moving into _my _Factory. The right 'when' is right then."

"Or next morning, if it's late, and you're over eighty," grinned Terence. "How did you expect them to get there?"

"I dunno. Walk? I've seen them all do it. Except for The Stickler."

"Josephine?"

"Yeah, that one." Willy considered. "They could've taken a cab. They could've taken two cabs… heck, a cab for each of them!" Willy drew himself up, pouting peevishly. "You'd think they'd know I'm good for the fare."

Terence laughed outright, and Willy, the knowledge of his worldwide candy empire backing him, instantly dropped the put-on pout, and smiled wickedly.

"But instead?"

"Instead," replied Willy, haughtily, "they left it up to me, and that's what you get. Dilly, dally, dither: what if they changed their minds? Had second thoughts? I'm not everyone's cat's meow. We can't have that now, can we? So Charlie and I jumped into the Great Glass Elevator, and I crashed the roof so they couldn't use the house, loaded 'em all up—including the bed—and hauled 'em off to the Factory."

"And the rest of their things?"

"The personal things? Noah and Nora and Charlie boxed 'em up, and—not that they needed one—brought 'em back in one of my trucks." Willy sat back in awe. "Noah and Nora know how to drive."

Willy said the last sentence as if the ability to drive a truck were a miraculous feat. Terence decided not to investigate the incredulity; it was already all too easy to get sidetracked talking to Willy. "Forget the driving: you have the Buckets, and their things. Why do you still want the house?"

"Because I've already told you, I don't want parens living in my Factory. I said I wouldn't like it, I've tried it, and I don't like it," answered Willy, testily. For some words, Willy preferred Latin over English, 'parents' being one of them. "Technically, the Bucket house is _not_ my Factory. If they live there, they're in the Factory, and out of the Factory, at the same time. That suits me, and it will suit them." Willy paused, and the pout was back, sincere this time. Even he thought this was a mighty fine hair to split, but splitting it made the dynamic work for him, so split it he would. "I bet they want a place in the Factory that's theirs and not mine as much as I do. Besides which, that's what Charlie wants: his house in The Chocolate Room. You saw the drawing he made, and you know we made a deal, and a deal's a deal. Will you do it?" Willy's manner was gruff, but his eyes were pleading.

Terence had decided at the first request. "It's a deal."

"Ahh…" Willy looked like Atlas shrugging the world off his shoulders, and with a deep sigh, he closed his eyes. A moment later they snapped back open, and he was all business. "Good man." Willy's eyes glittered with purpose. "As to resources, you have carte blanche, other than Oompa-Loompas. I don't want Oompa-Loompas out in the cold. As to method, do it in pieces, one piece at a time, all of them separate, all carefully marked, for re-assembly later."

"Because?"

Smiling now, Willy tilted his head back, and said in his best Mr. Roger's voice, "Can you say, 'septicemia'?" He lowered his gaze and met Terence's, saying in his normal voice, "Did my Factory seem like a place filled with germs to you? That house is a pus pocket, no offense, surrounded by a dump…"

"None taken, but I'm not a Bucket," answered Terence, matter-of-factly popping another of the irresistible Square Candies into his mouth. He knew Willy wasn't being mean when he described the tiny, ramshackle Bucket house that way, and Terence knew Willy knew what he was talking about. Willy had explored the Bucket house in meticulous detail during the dinner—while everyone else was eating—that Mrs. Bucket, having invited both Terence and Willy earlier in the afternoon, hadn't expected Willy to attend. Her surprise when he did—and her surprise when she learned the reason—almost knocked her over, and she wasn't alone. It astounded her entire family to learn the news of Charlie's apprenticeship. But it wasn't every day Willy Wonka took on an apprentice, and on the day he did, try as he might, he didn't see any way forward except to clear it with the parens himself: especially as Charlie's dream was to live in the Factory, with his familia in tow. It was a bizarre dream in Willy's view, but there it was, and there was no getting around it. The dinner invitation he'd thought he'd duck, turned out to be just ducky to get that done.

Remembering Willy's roaming, so disconcerting to the Buckets, Terence was still amused by the comment that had come floating down from Charlie's loft, once, after Willy lay down on it, the creak of the bedsprings of Charlie's cot had subsided. 'Terrific view you have here, Charlie.' It was a view of Willy's own dear Chocolate Factory, through the hole in the roof. 'Won't you miss it?'

'Yes, Willy! I will!' Charlie, sitting at the table, surrounded by his happy and admiring family, had yelled joyously back up. 'But it will be the only thing! Because everyone, and everything else, is coming with me! And that view is where we're going!' And Charlie had burst into exultant laughter, beside himself with happiness.

Willy's silky voice snapped Terence back to the present.

"You ate that. I saw it. That's the second one. I already said 'Ew'. Pl-ease don't make me say it again."

"Too late," muttered Terence.

Willy felt himself returning to form. "Ew," he laughed. "I want that entire collection of detritus dismantled, with each piece individually steam-cleaned, and disinfected within an inch of its life."

Terence had picked up another Square Candy, but in deference, he put it down again. "Life? I think you're too late for that, too. That house doesn't owe anybody anything."

Willy waved a hand good-naturedly, settling more comfortably into the chair. Now that this distasteful phase of the moving project was out of his hands, and into a trusted someone else's, he felt scads better. "Whatever. If it gets to go in my Chocolate Room, it gets to go there spotless, so it gets to get dismantled."

"It shall be as you say, Exalted One," murmured Terence.

Willy grinned, ignoring the friendly sarcasm, giggling a little as he weighed 'Exalted One' in his mind, turning it over, considering whether he preferred it to 'Amazing Chocolatier'.

Guessing what Willy was thinking, Terence ignored him, and made a steeple of his hands. "I'll dismantle, you disinfect." Taking a moment to mull over the possibilities, Terence was pretty sure he knew how he wanted to go ahead with this. A couple of phone calls should do it, and he could turn the heavy lifting over to much younger people, with excellent result. Something else occurred to him. "Why didn't I hear the Great Glass Elevator?"

"I walked. It was dark."

"It's not now. I'll walk you back."


	2. One Way

It was movement in the early morning light that caught Nora Bucket's attention, and holding the handle of the steaming mug of aromatic, Lavender Bilberry tea she'd brewed for herself, Nora pressed her forehead to the window pane to see more closely what it was.

What it was, was who it was: Willy Wonka, walking as if his feet were encased in cement, crossing the street in front of his Factory, his friend Terence leading the way. Nora's other hand slipped around the smooth curve of the mug, cradling its reassuring warmth as she wondered again if moving into Wonka's Factory hadn't taken the family out-of-the-frying-pan-and-into-the-fire. The move had been sudden, and unexpected, and there was _so_ much she didn't know about Willy Wonka.

For one thing, who—except Willy Wonka—would stock Lavender Bilberry tea as a staple? It was the only tea Nora had found in the suite's small, but otherwise well supplied kitchen. For another thing, Nora had known for years, in her deepest heart, that Willy Wonka was dead.

When the Factory re-opened, it was the only explanation that fit: some conglomeration had somehow wrangled control of the place, with some imported workforce brought in by the parent company to keep the secret and milk the benefit of the brand name. The story of Mr. Wonka's developing a case of reclusiveness was a good one—and necessary, since Mr. Wonka was long gone—but for anyone who knew him, like her father-in-law Joe, it didn't ring true: Willy Wonka, first, and foremost, was a showman.

Nora glanced back at the quiet living room. She was still the only one awake, and knowing she had some solitary minutes ahead of her, she turned back to the window. Terence had made it across the street, and without a key, had easily pushed open the small gate to Nora's right. She couldn't help but smile at that. That, at least, was one mystery solved: the trick to getting into the Chocolate Factory was as dead simple as the fact Willy Wonka lived: it was Willy Wonka wanting you in. If you had that going for you, getting in was child's play. Putting her fingertips to her lips, Nora smothered a laugh: she was discovering 'child's play' was more than an apt description for Willy Wonka.

Having gained the Factory grounds, and with the gate closed, Willy picked up his pace, but instead of crossing the courtyard, as Terence was doing, he hugged the wall to his left. Terence, noticing, altered course to join him. When he was certain he could no longer be seen from the street, Willy abruptly halted and got comfortable: leaning his shoulders against the wall, he raised one foot and placed it flat against the wall, as well. Though it was cold out, Willy, in his long, black great-coat, looked plenty warm, and like he'd be there all morning. Terence, standing with his back to the window, didn't look like he was in any hurry, either.

Nora wondered if she should keep watching. It seemed impolite, but even from this distance, she could see there was something wrong with Willy's hat. The brim wasn't symmetrical, and it was a bowler, not a top hat. She knit her brow in consternation. He also lacked the sunglasses, odd or otherwise, without which he never ventured out. Very weird, for Willy. Even what you thought you knew about the man didn't always hold true. Nora could plainly see the two were carrying on a conversation, and judging by the give and take, it was something important. Defiantly, for her, Nora concluded there was no expectation of privacy for conversations held in a courtyard, and anyway, she couldn't hear them, and they'd never know she was at the window. To make sure, she took a half-step back, but sticking to her decision to observe, the half-step was her only concession.

Watching the very much alive Willy Wonka very carefully, it was no mystery to Nora why she preferred thinking him dead all these years: he was the White Knight whose Factory had given the family its leg-up on the good times, and in her fantasies she'd always thought him the White Knight who would save the family from the bad times. There was no rhyme or reason for her thinking this, Nora knew that, but it had made her happy to pretend. In her idle dream, only death could stop him: so that was how, for years, she'd thought of him.

Nora looked again at her toasty warm, sumptuous surroundings, letting her eyes lose focus. Though the Factory closed, the hard times hadn't happened right away: Willy Wonka paid his employees handsomely, and although Joe didn't find another job—employers thought him too old to hire—his savings from his work at the Chocolate Factory, carefully hoarded, lasted an astonishingly long time. Her dad, George, had a good job then, too, repairing clocks, and her husband Noah's Smilex position promised a bright future: bright enough to have a child... and they had: Charlie was the light of their lives. Then, when Charlie was four, things took a turn: by the time he was five, things were worsening. Bit by bit, everything Nora thought solid turned insubstantial; jobs and futures disappeared. Like quicksand, the downward spiral was irresistible.

Through it all, Joe refused to let Willy Wonka die, and for Charlie's sake, Nora went along with the charade. Charlie loved the stories that Joe told about Mr. Wonka and his Chocolate Factory, and the family willingly indulged them, happily joining in with an 'oh' or 'ah' when called for: even, now and then, throwing in comments of their own. Everyone tacitly agreed it was better to play along with whoever was _really_ running the place now, and keep Charlie's belief in the famous Chocolatier alive, because although someday Charlie would outgrow his love for the Chocolate Factory on top of the hill, until then, the stories were a harmless escape from an otherwise harsh existence.

Whoever was running the place… the thought was enough to refocus Nora's eyes, and burning with anger, she looked daggers at the Chocolatier in the courtyard. Charlie, on February tenth, _not even three weeks ago, _had _brought home_ WHOEVER was running the Chocolate Factory, and it was _Willy effing WONKA!_ He'd been here ALL the time, ALIVE, _and he hadn't saved them_! Every sinew in her tensed, like a bow pulled taut, in that split second before the arrow is let fly. Knowing it irrational—as irrational as her imaginings—and not caring, Nora was furious: the hardships of all those years, released at last, clouded her ability to think.

At that moment, Willy glanced toward the window, and Nora, brought back to her senses, quickly dropped her head to stare into the now cold mug of tea. When she looked again, a minute later, Willy, head slightly cocked, was thoughtfully contemplating Terence's upraised fist. Nora moved closer to the window, watching in fascination. Slowly, Willy made a fist of his own, and with it, delicately tapped the fist Terence held out. Terence immediately turned on his heel, grinning, and left as easily as he had entered. Nora felt the briefest frisson of unease at what she was seeing now. It was the trick to getting _out _of the Factory: Willy Wonka letting you go.

Feeling emotionally limp after her fit of anger, Nora watched Willy watch Terence go. With Terence surely gone, Willy slowly pushed off the wall with his foot, and standing now, he deliberately looked to the window—directly into Nora's eyes—holding them for a long minute, the dark violet of his inscrutable. When Nora was sure Willy would hold the gaze forever, she saw the wisp of a smile lift the corners of his mouth, and carelessly hefting his cane, he turned away, heading toward the loading bays, disappearing through a door at the end of the wing.

Freed from the mesmerizing stare, with a barely audible gasp, Nora hastily took two steps back. Shoving aside what her senses told her, she insisted to herself that couldn't have happened: it wasn't possible Willy Wonka knew she was watching. It was a trick: something the light, or her imagination, or this Factory, was playing on her. Anger flared again, the fingers of her free hand curling into a fist. None of this was fair. It was all unfathomable. Events were sweeping her along, taxing her ability to keep up, making her fanciful, and skittish. Nora prided herself on being none of those things, and her helplessness at finding herself in these circumstances threatened to blind her.

Charlie's joyful voice, as he scampered from his room, blessedly restored some of her lost equilibrium. "Are you up, Mum?"

"Shh, dear, I'm here."

Charlie dashed across the room, and threw his arms around her legs in a bear hug, almost spilling her tea. "Oh, Mum, isn't the Factory wonderful? Everyday I wake up I still can't believe we're here."

"Shh... careful, sweetheart, the tea!" The look on Charlie's delighted, upturned face made her laugh as her fist unclenched, and she wrapped her arm around her boy, bending down to hug him back. "Yes, it is, and I can't either." Steadying herself, Charlie reminded her just where she was, and taking a deep, calming breath, she let her anger go. Shame replaced it. She may have discovered Willy Wonka was no White Knight, but, standing as she was, with _her_ family, in _his_ Factory, undeniably, save them he had. Somewhat mollified, Nora still sagged under the weight of the frustration that clung to her: she wasn't an ingrate, but there was _so much_ about Willy Wonka she didn't know.

* * *

><p>The telephone calls Terence made after dropping Willy at his Factory, were to the University, two towns over. It had a renowned Archaeology Department that Terence figured was just what the doctor, er, Chocolatier, ordered. What wonderful practice it would be for the students, to get some hands-on experience on a bona fide dig. Of course it wasn't a dig, it was a dismantle, but the skills required in this case were the same: careful handling in dismantling the antique building, with meticulous cataloging and packing of same.<p>

The head of the department, hearing Terence's proposal, didn't turn him down outright. It was Saturday, and Terence had managed to track him down at home: if Terence was a crackpot, he was a determined, resourceful crackpot, and the idea wasn't without merit. A detailed discussion ensued, this Terence fellow insisting on some particulars, two being foremost: the project must start right away, and be completed as quickly as possible. "There's the rub then," he told Terence. "The University doesn't do anything right away, and nothing happens quickly. But I have a colleague who might be interested, very familiar with digs, I'm sure he can help you. Strictly ad hoc, of course. I'll give you his number."

Undaunted by the setback, Terence went through his spiel again, with the interested colleague, who _was_ interested: very interested in fact, when Terence sweetened the pot by including a grant to fund the professor's pet dig, in Mycenae, Greece, for another year.

"You're on Mr. James. I can have a team lined up and start Monday, bright and early," he said.

On his end, Terence smiled. "Terence is fine, and it's early now. How 'bout starting this afternoon?"

There was a long pause. "Okay, Terence— I hear you. This afternoon. I'll meet you on the site. Where is it?"

Terence told him, and hung up.

* * *

><p>That afternoon found Terence at the Bucket house, in deep consultation with the learned archeologist, and the senior members of his team. Rounded up on short notice, with the mission outlined, the youngest spoke for all of them, when out-of-turn he dubiously blurted: "Seriously? Someone wants to keep this wreck?"<p>

"Seriously. Someone does, and it's very important you don't make…" Terence was about to say 'hash', but he thought of Willy, and said instead, "kindling out of it."

Exchanging glances, the team nodded. A grant was a grant, and this project was a piece of cake.

* * *

><p>By Monday, the project was in full swing. Archaeologists, and archaeologist wannabes alike swarmed the site. Trim was coming off the house, and the chimney and roof were losing components at a good clip. At this rate, with this workforce, the project wouldn't take ten days.<p>

"Where do you want these crates stored, Mr. James?" asked a student, as the day waned, and it became late afternoon.

"Terence," answered Terence, thinking. It was a good question. Should he run them up to the Factory? In what? Wait till he had more?

Another student, as she finished nailing shut the top of one of the crates solved the problem. "Are you expecting a Wonka truck, Mr…," she caught herself, "Terence."

'Mr. Terence', thought Terence, and gave up. Willy was right. It_ is_ maddening not being called what you ask to be called. Terence turned to see what the student was pointing at with her hammer: a Wonka truck making its way to the site. "No, I wasn't," he sighed, "but we may as well use it, if its gone to all this trouble to come down here."

Like dominos falling, work suspended as each person in turn noticed the truck, until no one moved at all. The question of who would get out of the truck was too compelling to ignore: it might be Willy Wonka himself. The rumors of recent sightings of the man were rampant, after all. Terence was as transfixed as the rest of them: Willy was unpredictable, and sending a marked truck wasn't exactly low profile.

Maneuvering carefully, the truck parked within easy distance of the stacked crates. The door opened, and out jumped a warmly dressed, petit, middle-aged woman, with shoulder length, dark, curly hair, and no one else. With a collective sigh and their leader admonishing them, everyone—except the group around Terence—returned to work.

Nora made her way over to the group, taking in the scene as she did so. After the quiet of the suite in the Factory, the noise and bustle were disconcertingly welcome, and Nora was smiling with what she was seeing—the family's dilapidated house, being treated as if it were a rare and valuable artifact—and it tickled her no end. "It's nice to see you, Terence," she said. "This truck and I are at your disposal. He'd like the crates brought up at the end of each day, but we can load them as they're packed."

The students exchanged skeptical glances. He? A Wonka truck? Was this a Chocolate Factory project? Really? The connection was a stretch.

Terence stepped in, asking the question on all their minds. "Is he coming down?"

Nora laughed, a sweet musical laugh, making no effort to keep what she was saying to herself. Everyone nearby heard her, and passed it along. "No! Of course not! You know he never leaves his Factory. He sent me, and you're stuck with that." She laughed again.

"Hm." Terence was wary. Shrugging it off, he continued jauntily, "Right you are, then. Everyone, this is Mrs. Bucket, and this is the Bucket house we're taking apart, so stow any disparaging comments you may have about it while in this lady's presence. Okay. Have truck, will load. Let's get loading!"

The students moved off to get to the task, but Terence put a hand on Nora's arm to keep her from joining them. "Are you enjoying the Factory?"

"The Factory?" she murmured, coyly sarcastic. "I couldn't tell you. All I've seen of it so far is the entrance hall, and the corridors leading to the suite he's given us, until the house gets set up. Oh, and today I can include the loading bays." Her eyes clouded. "I think it's awful he's shifted the responsibility for this to you. You have a shop of your own to run, and he doesn't even care." Suddenly her demeanor changed, and she was all smiles. "Yes, everything is perfectly lovely!"

Terence, clued in, swung round to see Noah and Willy approaching companionably on foot from the direction opposite the Factory, Charlie with them, smiling as he contentedly held his father's hand.

"Who are all these people?" asked Willy inquisitively, taking in the bustling scene. "Am I bankrupt?"

Appreciative of Willy's well orchestrated misdirection, and always glad to see him, Terence resisted a bow, and settled for welcomely spreading his arms. "Not financially. These are the people making your dreams come true. They're students and professors from the University."

"Sure are a lot of them," offered Noah, rocking on his heels. Nora moved over to join him. Charlie ran excitedly over to the house, to get a better look at the goings on.

"Watch out, dear," called Nora, perfunctorily. She knew Charlie would pay attention.

Willy's interest was elsewhere. "Who are _those_ people?"

Terence pivoted to take in the group Willy was discreetly indicating with the top of his walking stick. "Those would be the rubberneckers, gawking at the activity. Want me to get rid of 'em?"

Willy considered. "Yes." He didn't care about the people if they kept their distance, but he wanted to see how Terence would do that.

At the word, Terence strode purposefully toward the bystanders. "Hey! You folks!" he yelled. "I'm so glad you're here! We can sure use some extra help loading these heavy, awkward, splinter-y crates. So all y'all come on over, okay?" He matched his words with a 'come hither' arm motion. "The more the merrier!"

The knot of people broke into murmurs: murmurs expressing gripping reasons why they suddenly couldn't stay. Like a mist, they all but one melted away. That one, moved toward the truck.

Satisfied, Terence backtracked quickly to his little group, grinning knowingly to himself.

"Kewl," said Willy.

"Where do you get these hats?" asked Terence, still grinning.

Willy preeningly put a hand to his hat, and flashed a smile. "Like it?" It was a tan fedora. "It's a hat I don't wear: the color is terrible."

Nora rolled her eyes disgustedly at the illogical statement, a gesture missed by everyone but Terence.

"I have a whole room full of them," finished Willy, oblivious. "Hats I don't wear, I mean. Not hats like this one." Frowning to think he hadn't been clear, Willy turned back toward the house. "I wanted to see this," he said, wistfully. "I hope you don't mind."

Terence found the forlorn note in Willy's voice touching. "I don't, but you can't stay. Even with your wily hat disguise, it won't take long before these people cotton on to who you are, and after that, nothing will get done."

"We're done loading the crates that are ready," sang out one of the students.

"My cue to exit." Willy bowed his head. "It's too bad I can't stay. It looks pretty neat, when you're in on it, and it's not to hurt someone." Stiffly, he caught Nora's eye. "Shall we, chauffeur?"

Before she could move, Terence stepped forward. "Can Noah take you? I'd like Nora's opinion on some of the logistics. Charlie's too, if that suits."

Willy's face was impassive. "Noah, then. Nora decides about Charlie." Not waiting for any further comments, Willy made for the truck with his head bent, Noah at his side like velcro. No one would bother Willy Wonka if Noah Bucket had anything to say about it.

"Why did you want me to stay?" Nora asked, as she watched her husband, with her benefactor, make their way to the truck.

"There's something I need to show you, on the other side of town. Charlie should have the benefit, too."

"Why?"

Terence was tight-lipped. "Perspective— you've said some things today. And just now— he didn't mean someone. He meant him."

Nora looked confused. Terence sounded almost hostile.

Done with explaining, Terence did his best to rein in his impatience. "You'll get it when you see it."

At the truck, the lone remaining gawker hovered.

The long black coat, oversized sunglasses, stacked boots—with three inch heels—and the fedora, worn by the man getting in the passenger side caught a student's attention. Where had this guy come from? "Hey, dude!" the student called out amiably. "Rad hat."

Touching his hat, the man smiled and nodded back, but said nothing.

Inexplicably ticked off at the lack of an audible answer, the student was suddenly determined to make this guy say something. Most people would have answered him already. "What's in the cane?"

The question started a tug-of-war in the man's head, with the hesitation so long the student all but lost hope the man would answer: but answer he did— his voice high, the cadence lilting. "That's need to know, but if you need to know, they're Nerds, Nerd, and now you know." The man laughed as he slammed the door, and the truck backed away.

The student laughed too: not so much at the words he'd heard, but at the infectious waves of joie de vivre the man gave off, especially when he laughed. Shaking his head at his from-out-of-nowhere, sudden burst of good feeling, the student returned to his work, happily energized. An odd answer, from an odd man, oddly fun.

The gawker, taking it in, dug out a notebook, scribbling in it madly. Now he knew, too. The Nerds gave it away. He was sure he had just seen none other than Mr. Willy Wonka, and as a reporter, he'd share this lucky sighting—and all its details—with his loyal readers, in the very next edition of the local paper.

* * *

><p><em>February Eleventh, hmm... another good day to update… thankfully, that's it for the anniversaries. Thank you gift-givers, for your reviews—for your reviews are, indeed, lovely gifts.<em>

_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think._


	3. A Lot To See

Dr. Wilbur Wonka looked forward to his evening paper and always had: it was all you ever wanted to know—and a lot you didn't—about the world and the local goings-on, delivered right to your doorstep. It was very convenient, made all the more so, as Dr. Wonka's doorstep wasn't convenient to anything. Dr. Wonka lived alone, and so did his house; which is to say, he had no nearby neighbors.

Dr. Wonka liked it that way. It made it harder for people to pester him with nosey questions, and though the questions he wanted avoided changed over the years, they remained no less nosey, or pesky.

For years now, the most pesky question he faced from his deluded, simpering, meddling patients was: "Are you related to Willy Wonka, the famous Chocolatier?" That question made him want to spit, and rather than answer it, he often asked _them_ to spit—he was a dentist, and he could do that—but on this night, as he stooped to retrieve the evening edition from his stoop, he allowed that that loathsome question was marginally preferable to the pesky question of many years ago: "Whatever happened to Willy?" which, he allowed, was easier to answer than the most pesky question of all the pesky questions, from even more years ago: "Whatever happened to Mina?"

Even thinking about _that_ question, even after all these years, in the otherwise even-minded Dr. Wonka, still managed to elicit from him the merest of shudders. Dr. Wonka tried—and failed—to stop himself from looking furtively about as the answer entered his head, but after a moment, with a short, dry laugh, he regained control of himself. He needn't be concerned: as usual, there were only the wind and stars to see him.

Rising with difficulty, Dr. Wonka placed the fingers of his right hand against his side, snaking the pressure he applied there toward his back. It did little to quell the ghost of the twinge of pain he felt, for not the first time, but the action helped him feel he was addressing it. The pain came more often now, usually when he was bending, and it bothered him just a little he was losing weight, for no reason. The pain, like the questions, was pesky, but unlike the questions, it was beginning to pester him more of the time. The people asking the questions after all, sharing the fate of his practice, had all but died out.

These thoughts! Turning to re-enter his house, his eyes becoming slits of annoyance, Dr. Wonka slapped the paper he held roughly against his other hand, as if the noise of the slap would scare away the ghosts his thoughts conjured up. It worked well enough, and Dr. Wonka brusquely closed the door of his house—and of his mind, with the ghosts shut out, as effectively as they always were.

* * *

><p>Before the light began to fade, and well before the ghost of the thought formed in Dr. Wonka's head to retrieve his newspaper, Nora Bucket stared at a ghost herself: the ghost of Willy Wonka's childhood home. It left her aghast. "I never thought you meant this literally, Terence!" she cried out, fiercely clutching Charlie's shoulders, planting him to the spot as if Charlie might also disappear, like the house they didn't see. "It's impossible! You can't do it."<p>

"This proves with the right motivation, you can," was Terence's terse reply.

"A monster's motivation," breathed Nora, still struggling to take in what she wasn't seeing, and what she was.

"Mum!" Charlie, cried out, twisting. "That's too tight."

Nora snatched her hands away. "I'm sorry, dear."

"That's okay, Mum," Charlie said kindly, rubbing a shoulder. His Mum looked shook up, but Charlie was a child, and when Terence said, during the dinner he attended at the Bucket house after Charlie's private tour, that Dr. Wonka moved Willy's entire house in one afternoon, that's exactly what Charlie thought Terence meant. This must be where the house had stood, and 'no house' is exactly what Charlie expected to see. "Is this the memory, Terence?"

"The memory?" echoed Nora.

"Sure," said Charlie, a little exasperated at his normally quick-witted mother. "We were working in his office after school on Friday— you know, Mum— and he moved the old drafting table he designed the Factory on next to his desk, so I could sit at it, and we could see it together, to plan how to move the house."

Terence pricked up his ears. "How'd that go?"

"Good for a minute. Willy was all excited, and spun a circle in his chair. The circle moved him to the table." Charlie, remembering, smiled, and then laughed a little as he had at the time. "Then he picked up a pencil to make a list of things we should do, and then he got all tight, and stopped the pencil in mid-air, and froze for a minute, and then he put it down." Charlie frowned. "Then he put his head in his arms on the table, and then he sat up after a while, and then he pushed his chair away from the table and said he was sorry, but he couldn't have the memory of the memory in his office or he could never use his office again, and he couldn't have that!"

Taken by the words' simplicity—Charlie's translation of Willy's gobbledygook speak no doubt—this time Nora didn't fault Willy for his indulgence in verbal obscurity: if this happened to her, she'd find ways of saying it without saying it, too.

Terence let it all wash over him. "And then?"

"And then we spent the rest of the time with the Oompa-Loompas, moving the drafting table to Reception instead, and then it was time for dinner."

Reception? Nora pursed her lips at the revelation. She _had_ seen that room, forgetting to list it in her zeal to keep the list she gave Terence short. On Sunday, asking Charlie to show her and Noah where he was working, Charlie had shown them the room with the drafting table. It was a lovely drafting table, a beautiful antique, in a lovely room, and Nora had thought it Willy's office: it looked exactly like one. Nora nervously made a fist, afraid to ask, afraid she'd shortchanged Willy again, but kneeling in front of Charlie, bravely she did ask. "That wasn't Willy's office, Charlie?"

"No, Mum," was Charlie's exasperated answer. "Didn't you see the button I pushed on the Elevator to get there? It said 'Deception', because it's 'Reception' and _not _his office. It's an office just for show, for people he doesn't want to know better. But it's an okay place to work. He says he hardly ever goes there, so he doesn't care about memories there, and anyway, he said he won't have to remember the memory, if someone else does it."

Nora sat back on her heels, letting her hands drop into her lap, thinking over all she'd seen and heard since coming here. It was an easy stance to retreat to; her body felt too heavy with distress and sadness to do anything else. Charlie waited patiently. The way, Nora knew, he did with people not coping well, and it was odd for her to think Charlie thought her one of those. Terence was equally patient, and she was grateful for that, too.

Like an invisible crutch, their patience brought Nora out of her gloom: as awful as this was, this was also ancient history, and having survived this once, Nora didn't blame Willy if he chose not to try for twice. Taking Charlie's hand in hers, she gave it a little squeeze. "I guess Willy prefers not to dig this up, dear," she said, with a feeble smile.

Terence, not believing his ears, almost slapped his thigh. Instead, he grinned delightedly, and held out a hand to help her up. "Why, Mrs. Bucket! I do declare! Did you just make a joke? With a pun? Why, I believe there's hope for you yet— Willy would be proud of you."

Nora tilted her head to look at Terence seriously. "I hope so. Right now, I'm one of the people who doesn't know better, and I know that better change."

Terence wiggled the fingers of the hand she wasn't taking in encouragement. "You _are_ getting the hang of this, aren't you? Come on, I'll help you up."

Nora took his hand.

"Can I explore?" implored Charlie, now that his Mum looked out of her funk. "This looks like a park."

With Terence's help, Nora got back to her feet. "Of course, dear, we'll watch from here, but it'll be dark soon so make the most of it."

Smiling, Charlie ran off.

"I thought that room was his office, Terence."

Terence cocked a brow. "Why would it matter?"

Nora twisted her hands together. "Do you remember Willy took Charlie's toothpaste cap Factory model back to the Factory with him?"

Terence nodded, the grin returning. "You mean after he stumbled across it taking your house apart, while the rest of us were eating dinner Wednesday night? Yeah, I remember. Charlie gave him the okay. What about it?"

"That model was the first thing we saw when he showed us our suite. It was on the coffee table— front and center— and having it there made us all feel like we were a part of the Factory already."

"Sounds like a nice gesture." Terence didn't see the problem, but he wondered whose idea that really was: Willy might like it when he heard it, but he probably wasn't the one to think of it.

"It _was_ a nice gesture— surprisingly so, considering how awkward things are overall." Nora pursed her lips. "The next morning, Willy stopped by— ostensibly to see we had all we needed— he didn't stay," her tone made it clear she thought he should have, and she bit her lip not to start judging again, "but I really think it was only to get the model back. He asked if he could take it. He said he was going to keep it in his office."

"That sounds nice, too," said Terence, now sure putting the model in the suite was someone else's idea. Doris came to mind.

"Charlie was thrilled. He ran right over to the model, picked it up, and made a little ceremony of handing it over. Bowing he said: 'Giving you this, I give you this.' As a gift, you see."

Hearing Charlie's words, Terence did see, and he nodded. Charlie was a natural, and that probably pleased Willy more than the model. "I'll bet Willy was thrilled."

"He was all smiles, and bowing himself as he took it, he said: 'Taken with this, I'm taking this, and thank you.' And then they both laughed, and Willy twirled around and was off with it, practically dancing down the hallway. Come to think of it, Grandpa George tried to follow him. I don't know why, but he gave it up pretty quick." Nora was shaking her head sadly.

Terence found her reaction perplexing. "Perhaps I'm missing something, but personally, I don't find that a sad story. Why do you?"

Nora looked at Terence fiercely. "I told you. I thought that room was his office. He said he was keeping Charlie's Factory model in his office. When it wasn't there, I thought he was lying. I keep faulting him— coming to the wrong conclusions..." Angry with herself, Nora hunted for a way to share the blame, and found one. "But he's so standoff-ish, he makes it easy."

Annoyance shot through Terence like electricity. "You mean unlike other reclusive people you know, who warm right up to people who fault them and draw the wrong conclusions about them?" he snapped. "And don't think Willy doesn't know you're doing it."

Nora remembered Willy's stare on Saturday morning and didn't doubt Terence for a minute. She lowered her head contritely. Terence was right to snap. "I'm sorry about what I said back at the house. I take it all back."

Glad enough of the apology, the glib retraction Nora tacked on the end of it sent Terence's annoyance level skyrocketing. "Blah, blah, sticks and stones, blah, blah..." He broke off, shaking his head, trying to bring his irritation under control. "D' ya remember that rhyme? Words will never hurt me? Well, they say the pen is mightier than the sword, and that means words. Words, if you ask me, cut as deep— or deeper— as swords do. So if you want to avoid these cuts, you'd best not say these words you think you might like to take back later." He'd been speaking to her as a professor might speak to a recalcitrant student, but now Terence looked at her impassively, and his voice sharpened. "You know damn well you really can't take them back."

Nora's teeth were on her lower lip for the second time in less than five minutes. She did know, and she knew she didn't want to lose Terence as an ally: from his tone, it seemed she might. "I am sorry. What happened to Willy after this?" she asked quietly.

Terence turned away, his irritation smoldering, wondering if he was wasting his time. A closed mind is a closed mind, and he knew Willy would walk away from Nora without a second thought or a backward glance. But Terence saw Charlie exploring happily, and Willy had hopes. Nora's question showed a willingness to keep trying, so making an effort, Terence turned back. "I'm sorry, too," he said, deliberately keeping his voice light. "I didn't mean to preach back there, but with this question you've just asked, now I will: that very night, Willy met his godparents, and he lived with them for years, across the street." Terence pivoted to show her, pointing. "Right. Over. There. That's where they lived, all along." Terence grinned. "As Willy would say: 'Isn't that neat?'"

Nora saw the grin, and felt relief. "Godparents?"

Terence held up both hands in a gesture of emptiness. "I don't know what else you'd call them. Willy needed parents, and God provided them. In my book, that makes them godparents."

Nora peered at the townhouse, down and across the street, with real curiosity. "Are they still there?"

"His godfather is, but his godmother died many years ago. Before Cherry Street— long before Cherry Street. Stroke, and then pneumonia. He didn't have her for long— about three years— four, if you count the stroke. Willy took care of her, until the end."

Nora's voice rose half an octave, following her eyebrows. "He did? Willy told you all this?"

"No. He didn't tell me any of it. He wouldn't. He told you, and you told me, and then I uncovered the details."

"Terence! Mum! Come look at this!" Charlie's call spilt the quiet. He was standing at the back of the lot: not in the center, but off to one side, and he was looking at something on the ground, in a spot that was once the premises' garden.

Terence broke off, and started toward Charlie. "We better look. I've been over this, but not carefully, and not lately."

Nora trotted to catch up. "How can I tell you a thing I didn't know?"

Terence laughed. "You told me what Martha said. That Willy and her grandfather knew each other well. Willy could have sent anyone. He sent her. He knew one of us would investigate that remark, and he didn't mind which one of us it was."

Nora was beginning to see: Willy communicated at first in clues, but she also knew Terence was being kind. If investigating that tidbit of information were up to her, Willy would still be waiting.

Terence read her thoughts. "I expect he knew it would be me. That sort of thing is right up my ally, and you had your hands full with your family." Suddenly, Terence halted. "Hey!" He looked at Nora, a few paces ahead of him now, as she stopped and turned, looking back. "It also gave me something to do— kept me in town, cooling my heels." Knitting his brow, Terence paused for a second, and then snapped his fingers. "And ya know what? So does heading up this house moving project." Smiling, he took up his walk again. "Criminy, lass! I've been had!"

Nora was smiling now; the alternate explanation lightening the mood considerably. Keeping a friend in town was so much more appealing an excuse for handing over the project than an appalling act of cruelty, decades later still as raw as the day it happened. Terence smiled too, seeing Nora more relaxed. He'd said it, but he'd been there at the asking: he knew he hadn't been had.

As they approached, Charlie spread his arms and turned a circle. "Look at all these stones. Someone put them here."

Set flat in the earth, Terence missed seeing these stones when he came here looking for Dr. Wonka in the Fall, because leaves covered them, and later, because he hadn't ventured in this far. It didn't matter: the snow that lay over everything would have hidden them. But last week was unseasonably warm, and the snow melted, and this week, only a skiff of snow had fallen to hide the ground. The winter sun's warmth, weak though it was, was enough to melt the snow on top of the dark stones, leaving the white of the snow between them, and now, the stones stood out in stark relief.

Easy to see, it was hard to know what to make of them. Polished granite, with no other markings, not a one was the same as any other, though they shared similarities. Of varying lengths, some stones were many feet long, some no more than a foot; each had a degree of curve, some pronounced, and some, more than one; each had a smooth edge, and a scalloped edge. A few had scallops on both edges. As long as the stones were, none was very wide, and the effect was one of delicacy.

Terence walked back to where the inlay stopped, and saw the area covered was a large one: thirty or forty feet across. Nora and Charlie walked with him.

"The longest ones are farthest out," observed Charlie.

"None of them touch each other," said Nora, as she noticed something else. "Why are some clumped closely together, and some are almost by themselves?"

Terence had no answer. He was still looking. As random as the stones' placement seemed, the negative space of the snow told otherwise. The clumps of stones closer together mostly occurred near the design's center, and though not centered on the lot, there _was_ a center. Walking along the path of snow between the stones, Terence found himself guided there, and he followed the snow path until he stood at its end. Laid flat in the earth like the others, of the same polished granite, was an oblong stone, three feet long, with rounded corners.

Nora moved to join him, cutting across the stones to do it. Watching her made Terence think. "This reminds me of the labyrinth Willy showed me at Chartres Cathedral."

"Labyrinth?" asked Charlie.

Terence nodded. "Ya know the difference between a maze and a labyrinth, Charlie?"

Charlie shook his head, and Nora looked interested, too. "I didn't know either. Willy told me. In a maze there are wrong turns you can take, but a labyrinth has no wrong turns. It's only a path, not a puzzle. A path you must follow, no matter how twisty and turn-y." Terence pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, as if what he was saying was making him cold. "Willy said it's a path where trying to take shortcuts will get you no where."

Nora shivered as a puff of wind caught her hair, and stung her cheek. She was standing beside Terence, but she hadn't followed the path. "I guess I'm no where, then," she sighed. She tried to say it lightly, but to her ears it sounded forced. Shifting her weight, she turned back to see Charlie, who hadn't followed them back into the flat-stone garden. "It's not a very clear path. You can barely make it out."

Terence didn't disagree, and at a loss to make any sense of it, he held his peace.

* * *

><p>"Aren't they back yet?"<p>

Spinning on his heels at the peevishly voiced, out-of-the-blue question, Noah practically jumped out of his skin. Caught daydreaming as he unloaded crates, Noah hadn't expected Willy Wonka to sneak up behind him, but Willy had, appearing from wherever it was that Willy went, disapprovingly holding his pocket watch in his hand. Quickly recovering from his surprise, Noah turned back to his work, noting the Oompa-Loompas nearby hadn't even broken stride. "Not yet," answered Noah mildly, doing his best not to laugh. As laid back as he was, high-strung people amused Noah no end, and Willy Wonka gave 'high-strung' new meaning.

Willy put his pocket watch away, and shifted his weight to his other foot. Noah wasn't concerned about a thing that should concern him. "Why aren't they back?" asked Willy politely, trying a new tack. "It's time to think about dinner."

"Search me," answered Noah, just as mildly as before. Noah had made another trip with the truck, without Willy, who stayed in the Factory, and Noah generously shared what he knew. "They left."

"Left?" Willy squeaked.

"Left," affirmed Noah, stopping his work to give Willy his full attention. "And don't worry about dinner," said Noah, with a slight smile, "we'll manage on our own."

Willy looked for the reproach in Noah's words, or tone—Noah was a paren, after all—but found none. Surprised by the lack, Willy, disarmed, hefted his walking stick. Noah's choice of words wasn't lost on him, and Willy admired their subtlety the more so, because they contained no ill will: he'd left the Buckets on their own since they'd arrived. Maybe that wasn't nice, or smart, but Willy didn't fool himself: he hadn't shown them anything, because he wasn't entirely sure he'd have them stay. So _why not_ have them do what they'd always done? _And why should that bother them? _Stay in bed for the grandparents, with Nora taking care of them— Willy still couldn't figure out why the grandparents hadn't gotten out of that bed, and taken advantage of the lovely bedrooms in that lovely suite, but they hadn't: they were in that bed this minute, in the middle of the suite's living room— hmm… and in the meantime, Noah did his toothpaste factory thing, and Charlie did his school thing, and he did his things, and it could go on like that, if you asked him, until the house was in place. But maybe it couldn't. Maybe looking for them now, and having them help him, meant he'd made up his mind. Today had been fun; and different; and scary, but for sure something worth repeating. Willy put the walking stick he'd been twisting in his hands back down by his side. "Noah."

Noah, having leisurely watched the cogs in Willy's head turn, waited for Willy to continue, but Willy just stood there, looking at him: expecting something from him. "Willy?" he ventured.

"When they get back, find me. I'll make dinner tonight. Thank you for helping today."

"Splendiferous," said Noah, as if this happened all the time, and was no big deal. "And I'm glad to help." As if to prove the point, he added, "They went to look at something, but as it's dark now, I expect they'll be back any time. How do I find you?"

Willy turned, and was walking away, waving a hand toward the Oompa-Loompas. "Find any of them, and tell them. They'll find me." Then he turned back, his dark violet eyes intensely serious. "What do you mean, they went to look at something? What something?"

"I don't know— something about the house."

"Hmm." Willy twisted his cane again, but in a moment, he dropped it back to his side, and lifting his head, laughed at himself for missing what Terence was up to. "Dear Terence. Sometimes he gets ahead of me." With a conspiratorial nod to Noah, Willy gleefully stabbed a determined finger into the air. "But I know just what to do to get them back."

* * *

><p>Sucking his breath in over his teeth with shock, the noise discordant in the quiet room, Dr. Wonka stabbed his bony finger at the page of newsprint, as if stabbing the name would stab the man. Terence James! That no good, weasel-faced, apple-cart-upsetting, useless piece of pond scum was back in town! Impossible! With dread, Dr. Wonka removed his finger from the page. Though smudged, the name was still there.<p>

_Beautification Benefits Buckets_ read the blurb on the community page. _Dump does double take to become park. Mr. Terence James, spokesman for Mr. Willy Wonka, advises Mr. Wonka is presenting the town with a new park, on what is now a wasteland at the edge of town. Work on the project has already begun. As part of the reclamation, the Bucket house, situated on the site, is moving to an, as yet, undisclosed location, but a Wonka truck, loaded with crates containing pieces of the Bucket house, returned to the Wonka Factory. Mr. Wonka was unavailable for comment, but the town commends his generosity in creating this new park for the town's enjoyment._

Dr. Wonka dropped the newspaper, and threw himself back in his chair. Terence James and The Boy! Those two pieces of plaque were working together again! In his fury, Dr. Wonka stabbed his finger into the air, vowing as he did to upset whatever apple cart The Boy, and that interloper, and these... these unknown Buckets were setting up. He winced only slightly at the pain in his side that stabbed him back.

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><p><em>Thank you dionne dance, 07kattho, SNAPE IS SNAPE, and Kate2015: your reviews are the gift that keeps on giving, providing both encouragement and inspiration. I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think._


	4. Dentists

Charlie's finger stabbed at the night air. "Look," he cried excitedly, forgetting completely the mystery of the stones. "Willy's here!"

Terence and Nora turned in unison. It was too dark to make out the landscape of the lot by now, but the light of the street lamps cast a warm glow on the sidewalk. Bathed in that glow, was a tall, flowingly draped, slim man, made taller by a top hat. Standing easily, with most of his weight on his right leg, his left leg crossed in front, the man balanced, with bent knee, on his left toe and the tip of his walking stick, its top held at a jaunty angle away from his body by his extended right arm. His features were in shadow, but his silhouette was unmistakable.

Pell-mell, Charlie took off running, only to reach the sidewalk and slide abruptly, in an unceremonious tangle of flying arms and legs, to a confused halt. "You're not Willy," he gasped, breathing quickly from his exertion. Instinctively, Charlie took a step back, out of the stranger's reach.

"No, indeedy, I should say I'm not," laughed the tall man. "No, siree! I dare say you're not Willy, either, but here you are, tramping all about, on the lot he owns."

In the light, Charlie could see his mistake. This man, dressed like Willy, but not Willy, was old: maybe as old as Charlie's grandparents… maybe older: Charlie couldn't tell. The man had silver-gray hair—still surprisingly thick—his otherwise fashionable haircut a little on the long side maybe, as the ends curled above his collar. His eyes were bright blue, but pale: like the blue of the sky, near the horizon.

"I'm sorry…" Charlie began, flustered, wondering if he should tell this man Willy wouldn't mind he was walking around on the lot, he knew Willy personally, but Charlie didn't get past the thinking stage before the man laughed again, cutting in on his deliberations.

"I say, young man, did you notice I didn't ask you Willy who?"

Charlie thought that a silly question. There was only one Willy in this town: Willy Wonka. Everyone knew that.

The man straightened up, planting his walking stick front and center, both hands atop it, imposingly friendly. "That face you're making makes me think of my friend Terence, also a prolific face-maker. Do you know what 'prolific' means?" He didn't wait for Charlie to tell him, one way or the other. "Lots. It means lots— but not this lot." He chuckled, the happiness derived from the recent phone call from the Factory spilling over into what he was saying, and how he said it. "There _is_, I say, more than one person named Willy in this town, no matter what you think, even if ours _does _have the limelight."

"Ours?" Charlie tried to guess who this man who dressed like Willy might be. He couldn't be Willy's father. This man was too nice to ever do a thing to Willy like what Charlie had at his back.

The man didn't answer, but lifted his head, and raised his walking stick, in a gesture of small salute at the two figures approaching from out of the darkness. "Speak of the devil, and he appears! Terence!" The man stepped around Charlie, holding out his hand.

Terence moved quickly, clasping his hand in Dr. Grant's, shaking it warmly. "Dr. Grant, it's great to see you again."

"Tsk, tsk, dear chap. Don't make me start from scratch. I haven't the time. Sin, Sinclair, or Libby."

Terence ducked his head at the 'Libby', smiling, but jumped right back in, lest Dr. Grant—er, which one _was_ he going to use?—beat him to the punch on the introductions. "Mrs. Nora Bucket, may I present Willy's godfather, Dr. Sinclair Grant, DDS. Dr. Sinclair Grant, may I present Mrs. Nora Bucket, and Mr. Charlie Bucket, Willy's new friends, and apprentice. Charlie, this is Dr. Grant."

At the word 'friend', Nora bent her head, thinking Terence was being kind again: in her opinion, her recent behavior made that description overly generous.

"Very formally done, Terence," nodded Dr. Grant, "very formally done. Quite right. I'm very pleased to meet you both." Dr. Grant shook each of the Bucket hands in turn, holding Charlie's for a longer beat than necessary, studying Charlie as much as he dared, without being rude. He smiled to himself, noting Charlie studied him right back.

"Willy's godfather? You're a dentist, too? Like Willy's other father?" Charlie's amazement shone in his questions.

"Guilty, I'm afraid," answered Dr. Grant, with no sign of guilt at all. He carefully lowered himself till he was eye-to-eye with Charlie. "I say, young man," he stage whispered, "between _us_ two, I don't think dentistry was all the culprit between _those_ two." With the help of his walking stick, Dr. Grant rose carefully to his feet. "And now, with the formalities over, I've been dispatched by Willy to send you home. He says to tell you, you've dilly-dallied long enough for one day, and dinner is waiting."

Charlie, smiling, glad to get out of the cold, and back to the Factory, and Willy, and his family, clapped his hands at the news, but Nora was elsewhere, her head still bent. She was turning over in her mind the word 'home', and the phrase 'dinner is waiting' used by Willy Wonka, to refer to them: their home, in his home: the world's largest, and best-loved Chocolate Factory: their dinner, in that place, waiting… for them. Try as she might to pooh-pooh it, it was heady stuff.

"Send us home? No Great Glass Elevator coming to fetch us?" Terence and Dr. Grant had already exchanged knowing glances at Nora's dreamy look of preoccupation. Terence was only talking to fill the time until Nora regained her footing, and rejoined them in the present.

Dr. Grant took a tentative step toward his townhouse, to see if Nora would follow. Though still far away, on autopilot, she did. "He said to put you in a cab."

Terence and Dr. Grant exchanged glances again—Nora was practically floating—but this time, Terence caught Charlie's eye, and nodded toward Charlie's mother. Charlie, alerted, quickly abandoned his own reverie—wondering what dinner might be, and who was making it, and if Willy would be there—and catching on, gently slipped his fingers around his mother's hand.

Brought back to earth by the touch, and seeing the concerned look on her son's upturned face, Nora laughed lightly, squeezing Charlie's hand, before she pulled her own away, placing it on his shoulder, instead. Then, with her hand to steady her, Nora playfully leaned down, and planted a great, big, smacking wet kiss on the top of her son's head.

"Mum!" Charlie did his best to sound distressed, but his face was alight, and even as he rapidly brushed the spot with his hand, he was laughing with delight to see his mother so carefree.

Nora beamed at the men. "What are we doing?"

Dr. Grant resumed his measured walk. "We are going, I say, to my home, dear lady, to wait for the cab I am going to call, once we get there, that will take you back to The Chocolate Factory."

* * *

><p>Willy stood in front of the double doors of the Bucket suite, his walking stick poised to rap on the righthand door. He was there to make sure the suite had everything he needed to make the dinner tonight, as promised. It would help him a lot, if he knew what he was going to make, but seeing what was on hand might inspire him.<p>

Willy's arm might be poised to knock: but that's as far as he got. The imminent threat of the social land mines tripped him up. Charlie, and Noah, and definitely not Terence, his allies, were definitely not in there. Even Undying Gratitude, aka Nora, aka Mrs. Bucket, whose undying gratitude, replaced with simmering mistrust, had run out pretty quickly—but who he still thought he could count on: they had in common, after all, their mutual interest in Charlie's well-being—wasn't in there.

The walking stick was still poised, but Willy's arm was getting tired. Ahlia might be in there: she was his eyes and ears vis-à-vis Bucket activity, cleverly set up in the guise of liaison. Till Noah had helped today, Ahlia was the only Oompa-Loompa the new-to-the-scene Buckets had met. As an intern, Ahlia was easy to re-assign, and so he had, and as Eshle's daughter, her reports would be filtered by the right person. He trusted Eshle, his Head of Production, not to waste his time with details he didn't need to know, and he trusted Ahlia to report every detail. Ahlia was young, and headstrong, but on her toes.

If Ahlia wasn't in the suite, that meant only the grandparents were in there. Willy dropped the Nerd filled cane to his side. The Follower was grumpy, and would most likely snap at him. Georgina would know who he was, or she wouldn't, and if she didn't, then it didn't matter, and if she did, she would say something amusing, that he knew would make him smile. Smiling at the thought, Willy lifted his walking stick again, only to drop it back down a moment later.

The Stickler was in there, too, and she would probably point out some grievous social faux pas, like not knocking three times, or knocking three times, or knocking too loudly, or not knocking loudly enough, whichever one was wrong, the wrong one being whichever one he did, and who needed to walk into _that_? Willy almost turned away: The Dentist was notorious for moving the goal posts: these parens were likely the same.

Willy's shoulders slumped at the dread The Dentist crossing his mind conjured up, even as his pulse quickened, readying his body, in defense of the menace, for fight or flight. He felt his hand tighten painfully around his cane. To distract himself, and stay on course, Willy continued with the inventory.

Grandpa Joe was in there. Grandpa Joe was Charlie's favorite, and Willy liked him, too. He'd remembered snippets about Joe as he watched him on Charlie's private tour: Grandpa Joe was one of his better workers in the Factory. Grandpa Joe was an old familiar face, and not just because he was old: Joe worked at Cherry Street, as well. Familiar was good: squaring his shoulders, Willy made ready to knock again.

But Willy remembered something else, and the walking stick dropped back to his side for the third time. Grandpa Joe, and Cherry Street, and the Chocolate Birds. How could he forget? So simple, so awful, and not Joe's fault, his fault, but he'd steered clear of Joe after that. Polite, but distant: the way, come to think of it, Joe treated him, after that.

The Chocolate Birds were really Candy Eggs, and Willy, to this day, was very proud of them. The candy eggshell timed itself to melt all at once, with the timing delayed to make you think it wouldn't melt at all, and when you were practically positive it never would, it did—in a surprising flash—releasing a foamy filling that tickled the tongue, and tantalized the taste buds. Thinking about this lovely creation, the corners of Willy's mouth crinkled in a smile. Wonderful as all that was, it was wonderfully _not_ the best part. The _best_ part was when those sensational sensations subsided, because then, to your wonder, you noticed a tiny chocolate bird—sitting on your tongue—so detailed in its markings, if you told someone about it, you'd swear it was alive. The leftover foamy filling made the bird seem to move.

Willy remembered giving Joe one of the eggs, and all was well until the last, when Willy remembered, to his mortification, saying, 'now, open', to reveal the chocolate bird. The cringe had hit him a second after he'd said those words then, and remembering them now, in a second, the cringe hit him again. 'Now, open' were the words a dentist would say—what _The Dentist_ would say—and nothing Willy would _ever say,_ but he had: the words as unbidden as they were unwelcome. The implication that you could choose, in an unguarded, light-hearted moment, the mannerisms and expressions of the heartless thing you wanted with all your soul _not to be like in any way_, was staggeringly frightening, and back then, to cover his horror, he giggled: an awkward, forced, mindless sounding giggle, because that is the sound you make to make people think you are happy, even when you aren't. Joe must have thought him daft.

Willy avoided Joe after that embarrassment, but that solution wouldn't work anymore, because here Joe was again, and Willy couldn't very well go on avoiding him now. With a dejected sigh, Willy sank to the floor.

* * *

><p>Charlie held the framed photo in his hand, as if it hid a secret. "This is Willy? His hair is so short."<p>

After calling the cab company, to pass the time, Dr. Grant had bowed to Charlie's request for a tour of Willy's former home. He didn't see the harm: Charlie had already toured Willy's present home, and he knew Terence and Mrs. Bucket were not likely to object. Now they stood in Willy's old bedroom, furnished, Dr. Grant confided, as Willy wanted it.

The room's simplicity impressed Terence favorably: a single bed, with a night stand and lamp; a desk, a chair, another lamp; bookshelves above the desk, with assorted books: mostly science fiction, and classics, with a smattering of mysteries, and adventures. Otherwise, the room was bare. Willy had once complimented Terence on the Spartan austerity of his own room, above his shop. Then, Terence had thought the compliment ironic, more a gentle dig, but now, seeing this, he thought Willy might have genuinely meant it.

Reaching out, Dr. Grant gently took the photo from Charlie, replacing it on the plain desk, among the other photos there, in its exact former location, adjusting it carefully. There weren't many of them, and Dr. Grant didn't keep his photos of Willy where just anyone could see them. Over the years, he found the explanations too arduous, and the friends you made after they heard the explanations, were, more often than not, no friends at all. "It is. Willy wore his hair short for most of his life. I don't know when he changed it, but it was after he joined forces with the Oompa-Loompas."

Nora, without touching it, looked closely at the photo. "Who is he mad at?"

"Oh, you noticed that, indeedy, indeedy," answered Dr. Grant, dryly. In that particular photo, Willy looked positively sullen. It was one of the reasons, no doubt, Charlie wondered so at the image's identity. "That photo was taken on his birthday— a promise he made to his father, when he came to live with us. I don't think he was very happy about it. I kept a copy." Dr. Grant indicated the sparseness of the pictures on the desk. "As you can see, Willy wasn't too keen on photos."

Intrigued, Nora studied Willy's face intently. "Did he look this aggrieved every year?"

Dr. Grant shrugged his shoulders. "What every year? There's just this one."

Nora connected the dots. Terence had said four years with the Grants: only one birthday photo. "Willy was born on leap year?"

Dr. Grant nodded.

"Neat," said Charlie.

"No birthday this year," said Terence, with no surprise: he knew the fact from his earlier visit. It was part of Willy's phone number Terence didn't know the rest of: 229.

"He says it's why he looks so young," laughed Dr. Grant. "Come. I believe that's the doorbell. The cab is here."

Nora lingered as the others left the room, one photograph seeming to reach out to her as she passed, pulling her towards it. It was the photograph of a lithe, sharp-featured, intelligent looking woman, perhaps a few years older than Nora was now, boldly staring straight into the camera's lens—as if her look would make the photographer hers—and Nora found the forthrightness beckoning her, too. Thrown carelessly over her shoulder, making its length indeterminable, the salt of grey was making noticeable inroads in adding another color to the woman's straight, milk chocolate hair: but her mischievous, gray-green eyes were full of life, and the smile on her face lit up the photograph, and the room, defying time, and belying the truth she wasn't really present. Next to her stood young Willy, with his odd, to Nora, short hair, looking relaxed, and confident, his smile equally bright, and welcoming, his shoulders nestled comfortably in the crook of the woman's left arm. The tapering fingers of her hand trailed loosely down Willy's upper arm, and the fingers of Willy's own hand reached up, lightly covering hers. It was connection—a single moment, frozen in time—between two people who cared for each other deeply.

"That's Cynthia, my late wife."

Nora started, her involvement with the photograph so complete, she failed to realize Dr. Grant, alone, returned to the room, and was standing beside her.

Dr. Grant went unerringly to the photo that had Nora's attention, picking it up, holding it gently in his hands. "Don't trouble yourself," he said softly, to soothe her. "The two of them together were a tour de force. I know it." With his sleeve, he wiped dust that wasn't there off the glass that protected the photo. "They wanted me to put the camera on timer, and get in the shot with them. They tried every persuasion imaginable, but I was being stubborn, and wouldn't listen. By this time, they were trying every persuasion un-imaginable—hence these ridiculous smiles—and even though by then I thought I'd oblige, they looked so _them_, I took the picture, instead." With a sigh, Dr. Grant put the portrait back.

"They don't look ridiculous," murmured Nora, her hand barely beginning to reach toward the photograph. "They look…"

Dr. Grant was already on his way out. "I say, I'm sorry," he said, gruffness hiding the catch in his voice. "Did you say something? It's time to go. The cab is here."

"No. It's nothing." Dropping her arm to her side, Nora cleared her throat as she followed after him. "I only said: Willy's not wearing gloves."

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><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. __Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think._

_Thank you dionne dance, Kate2015, and 07kattho: your reviews do more than delight._


	5. Dinners

_Warning: Abuse often masquerades as discipline, and mild violence is violence, and isn't _that_ an oxymoron! In this chapter, you'll find both._

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><p>Bother this dinner… and what good was sitting on the floor doing him? Willy climbed grudgingly back to his feet, assessing his predicament. These Buckets probably expected more than dinner. They probably expected sitting at the table, and using utensils. No stranger to both, Willy wasn't fond of either. Nibbling on this and that, at odd moments, as the mood struck him, was far preferable to sit-down meals, and meshed <em>so <em>much more neatly with his style of working. As for utensils, bah utensils; he'd given them up in favor of fingers decades ago, and for very good reason: when you graze all day, who _has _utensils, and utensils, unlike fingers, are inflexible, making them beastly hard to maneuver around… around… Wire. Wires.

Willy felt like a wire himself: stretched, and taut. Bother these Buckets, and bother these thoughts. The Dentist trained him well to stand and serve at meals, and it suited Willy to do it. Utensils and wires don't mix. The alternative, coaxing utensils to thread wires, meant eating slowly, and clumsily, making him seem uncoördinated, and oafish, at the table of a man whose eyes laughed at your every move: a man who savored as enchanting entertainment the spectacle his cumbersome, creepy, confounded contraption created. It was positively dreary, deary, and cold comfort knowing, if not for The Dentist's hideous handiwork making it so, you were none of those things.

At least The Dentist's heart-felt belief that children be seen, and not heard—and scarcely seen, at that—_was_ small comfort, and it spared Willy the agony of suffering this torturous eating ordeal in front of guests. On the rare occasions of dinner parties—or gatherings of any kind—The Dentist would trot Willy out, tight-lipped and mute, an expected display for the assembled company's amusement, their vapid observations boring The Dentist, while Willy dutifully kept his observations to himself. "Oh! Look how little Willy has grown," they'd coo, a few attempting to tweak his cheek, or pat him on the head, as if he were a well-trained pet.

Assiduously polite, and assiduously keeping out of their reach, Willy kept his face a mask, inwardly groaning. Did they mean to say he had grown not much? Or that little before, he had grown a lot? If the last, were they thick? What else did these ridiculous adults expect? Did they honestly dream, from visit to visit, he would shrink? Then Willy remembered Mike Teavee, and promptly snorted a giggle into the hand he hastily brought to his lips. There was little chance of _that_ fate befalling _him_ back then: he hadn't invented the machine yet.

Thinking about it, Willy flipped the hand so lately at his mouth dismissively into the air: it hardly mattered what the fools meant back then. On nearly every one of those occasions, he was, without further ado, sent packing off to his room. Remembering, Willy's head tilted dreamily back, and he exhaled contentedly, his mouth relaxing into the tiniest of smiles. Willy adored that: the packing off to his room part. His room was his sanctuary; lovely, and sweet: a sweet space of blessed escape. In later years, the sound of the doorbell alone was enough to send him shooting up the stairs—in the unlikely case he wasn't in his room already—with nary a peep of compliant from The Dentist. As un-amusing as Willy could make himself, even with threatened consequences to suffer later, Willy's not being required to amuse those he found un-amusing was a point they learned to agreed on.

His hand drifted to his face, and nothing prevented Willy from touching his cheek. There were no wires now; just wiry memories, snaring him in this nasty past: long gone, long over, long finished. Why didn't it stay that way? These Buckets: they weren't The Dentist, but they stirred up these thoughts, blissfully unthought for years. Willy clenched a fist, only to unclench it a moment later. Resisting was futile; these thoughts, they wouldn't go away, and sweetly or otherwise, there was no escaping them: if the future mattered, these thoughts needed thought now, because… because… Because they were roadblocks, getting in his way. That's what they were!

Putting his back against the wall, beside the Buckets' suite door, and liking the clichéd metaphor immensely—his back _was _against the wall—Willy surrendered to it all, sliding back down to the floor. Sitting cross-legged, placing his walking stick carefully beside him, his top hat next to that, Willy crossed his arms against his chest, and hunched forward. The Dentist upset, but Thea soothed: he'd think about Thea. Thea, who never said come to the table, but who never touched a morsel, until he did. Thea, who never asked him to eat, but who ate with such enjoyment, he followed her lead. It was so easy without the…

Unasked for, The Dentist was back, his voice silvery, like moonbeams, crooning softly: "When you're good, Boy, I'll take those braces off." It was a ritual Willy stood impassively for, his face a stone. The Dentist said the same words to him, on every night there was no one else to hear them. "That wasn't today, Boy, was it?" And he'd beckon, and Willy would take the indicated dish off the sideboard, and step forward, and The Dentist would serve himself another helping. "Good boy," he'd say, and then he'd laugh.

Willy's eyes half closed. Moonbeams were deceptive: they shone, but what you saw in their less than illuminating light was often not what you thought you saw, and remembering something murky, Willy's eyes lost focus, and in his warm Factory, he began to shiver: the cold of the bare floorboards of his bedroom, seeping into his body, as it had in the wee hours of an October night, long ago. The moonbeams on that cold, misty night revealed to him a dream: a dream of his father, in the garden—where his father _never_ went—calling for his mother—in the garden she loved—searching for her, but not finding her; calling for her, but hearing only the wind, rustling amidst the rotting leaves, scattered by his father's feet.

So real the dream seemed, in the morning, Willy imagined his toes still ached from watching on tip-toe at his window sill, and throwing back the covers, he pelted down the stairs, never so happy in his short—four, almost five-year old—life, to wake up. He would find his Mum's arms, and tell her about the awful dream, and she'd hug him tight, and laugh, and kiss the top of his head, and make it all better. This, as he careened down the stairs, was his dream, but as surely as had his dream of last night, this dream, too, abruptly ended, and the nightmare began. It started with the changing of his name.

"She left you, Boy." The growl of his father's voice stopped Willy at the bottom of the stairs, with the grip of his father's fingers, buried in the fabric of his collar, adding to the persuasion. Struggling, Willy tried to break free, to find his Mum. His father's words made no sense, and hurt, in a different way, as much as the hand on his neck. His father's fooling was no fun, but it never was. Willy knew his Mum wouldn't leave! Ever! Not without him!

Incredulous disbelief showed starkly on Willy's face, and in response, his father's fingers tightened, his hand twisting, his unrelenting grasp on Willy's collar beginning to choke him.

"Don't believe me, boy?" his father barked. "Let me show you." Like lightening spent, the bark disappeared, replaced by saccharin sweetness, but the grip on his collar was tighter than ever, and sharp, prodding knuckles, digging into Willy's back, propelled him along the hall, and down the stairs to the basement; to the corner where the seldom used articles were neatly stacked. "See," his father shoved him roughly toward the disarranged pile, "for yourself!" The saccharin voice singed itself with suppressed rage. "All her suitcases— gone!"

Giving Willy no time to look, his grip as strong as ever, Willy's father propelled him back up the basement stairs, and up the flight of stairs Willy had so recently run down: propelled him into his mother's room— her room: the room she didn't share with his father, and hadn't, for as long as Willy could remember. The closet door was ajar, the closet bare. Empty hangers and other odds and ends were strewn about, extreme haste conveyed by their helter-skelter locations. His father dragged him to her dresser, where Willy saw the same: the drawers all empty, and left in disarray. "She didn't take you with her, Boy," his father sneered, finally letting him go, shoving him away, forcefully enough to slam him into his mother's dresser. "Not even in a photograph!"

Willy hit the dresser and whirled, breathing hard, facing his father, as his father threw a scrap of paper at him. It fluttered to the floor, and through misting eyes, still gulping for air, Willy picked it up. It was a picture of him, with his mother, but marred by a jagged diagonal tear, his image intact, his mother's ripped out. Only her hands remained, on his shoulders, her fingers trailing down his upper arms. With tears in his eyes, Willy held it tightly, distraught with disbelief.

"She tore you out of her life, Boy, because she didn't love you— she _never_ loved you," jeered his father. "But I do, Boy. _I _haven't left you. Now stop your sniveling— it's demeaning."

Willy heard the words, not believing them. He looked up. His father's eyes were like flint, cutting and cruel.

"I'm all you have now, Boy, and I don't tolerate sniveling."

To escape the stab of his father's eyes, Willy hung his head, clutching the scrap of paper that was the only anchor he had with the way of life he'd lost this morning.

"Listen to me, Boy. I'm telling you she didn't love you, and I know what I'm talking about," his father spat, disgusted by his son's emotion. "In fact, it's you who've made her do this. You— with your frivolous, foolish, silly ways. It's not too late for you, Boy, I can put a stop to those now— and you'll thank me for that, I promise you. But never forget, Boy, what's happened here is your fault, and you'll jolly well spend the rest of your life making it up to me, for the inconvenience."

Willy stared at the grain in the floorboard, following its pattern, struggling to understand the accusations being heaped upon him. His father was blaming him. Saying his mother didn't love _him. _His heart screamed out in denial: _not true, not_ _TRUE,_ NOT TRUE! If anyone, it was his father she didn't love. His father, who disapproved of—his mother never said it, but they both knew it—of her, of him, of life, of joy, of _everything. _His father made his mother leave, and Willy would never believe otherwise. Tears tracked freely down his cheeks, but Willy refused to take the blame, and through their blur, he rushed at his father, like a terrier, his small fists pummeling his father's legs. "She left you," he screamed. "She left you, she left you, she left you! Not me! She left you!"

His father's retaliatory blow to Willy's cheek and jaw was as swift as it was dispassionately accurate. The force of it snapped Willy's head back, and the sting of his cheek brought fresh tears to his eyes. Willy raised his arm in self-defense, but his father, anticipating the move, seized Willy's forearm, bringing his face in so close, the breath he exhaled was warm on Willy's face.

"There'll be none of that, Boy," his father said lowly, his measured voice dripping with menace, but melodious. "I don't tolerate displays— or raised voices— or silliness. Do you understand? It's very important you do: as of this minute." His father placed his other hand beside the first, on Willy's arm. "If you raise your voice again, I'll wash your mouth out with lye, Boy. Do you know what lye is?" As he said the words, his hands simultaneously twisted roughly in opposite directions on Willy's forearm. "It's a chemical, Boy. A chemical that will burn your tongue so much worse than that little rub burned your arm. If I use enough of it, it will burn your screaming little tongue right out of your skull. We wouldn't want that now, would we?"

His father's flinty eyes burned as they bored into him. "Have I made myself clear, Boy?"

The searing, burning sensation was still shooting through his arm, but Willy defiantly choked back his cry of pain, before it achieved expression. His father dropped his arm, and Willy snatched it to his body, rubbing the hurt.

"I see I have. Good boy." Turning his back on Willy, satisfied with his morning's work, his father left the room. "Don't come downstairs, Boy, until you can behave."

Rubbing his arm, Willy blinked back salty tears, watching the disappearing back of his father dissolve into… Ahlia. Ah. Ahlia. Willy breathed out, ever so gently; and breathed in, ever so gently. How 'bout that? Time travel. Willy repeated the breathing exercise. This solved the mystery of where Ahlia was: not, after all, in the suite. Willy stopped rubbing his arm—there was no real pain—slowing lowering it to his lap.

Ahlia was sitting facing him, on the floor, mirroring the way he was sitting. She looked quite comfortable, as if she had been there for hours. He hoped not. She was looking tenderly into his eyes, which made him feel horribly uncomfortable, as, when he was himself, that was something he made sure it was nearly impossible for anyone to do. How long had he not been himself? Lowering his head, Willy began a mental inventory of his person, to find the cause for this disturbing tenderness, and reaching for his hat, he wondered what on earth he was going to say to get himself out of _this_ particularly sticky wicket.

Ahlia lowered her head when Willy lowered his. Eshle, her father, had told her about these episodes Willy had—not often, but sometimes—because she worked with Willy, in The Inventing Room, and she should know—but she had never seen one, and until now, she hadn't believed her father. Willy was so self-assured, and such a genius, and so wonderful, and so happy, how could there be anything that could make him sad? It was even more unbelievable that whatever it was could make Willy so sad it swallowed him up: but today she learned she was wrong: there was something, and it could.

Willy reached for his top hat, and put it on, and Ahlia wondered when he would notice the tears. He blinked, and his wet lashes pushed one last tear down his cheek. He noticed. She wondered if he would take out the handkerchief with her initial on it. He had taken it out of his pocket once, by mistake, she guessed, because he had thrust it back before anyone could see it, but she already had: she'd seen the 'A', in the corner, embroidered in a soft lavender color, and imagined the 'A' was for her name. She knew it wasn't, and the handkerchief Willy took out now wasn't it: this one had the expected intertwining 'W's embroidered in the corner, in bold purple.

Her father had told her to do nothing if this ever happened, Willy would handle it in his own way, and that was best, but having wiped away his tears, to Ahlia, Willy seemed uncertain still. Maybe he worried her youth prevented her understanding, and thought he frightened her: but that wasn't true, and she didn't want him to feel that way. She thought about how happy he usually was—laughing his favorite way of expressing himself—and the words of a song popped into her head. Her people adored songs, even songs they didn't make up themselves, and this was one of those. Ahlia sang to him softly: _"Laughing and crying, you know it's the same release."_

His eyes closed, Willy cocked his head in pleasant surprise, Ahlia's soft, clear voice scattering his confusion, and solving his problem: Ahlia had solved it for him. Matching her intonation, but not her voice, he sang softly back to her in his:_ "I told you when I met you I was crazy, …keeping the sadness at bay." _Willy smiled, his eyes open now, and he spoke lightly. "But not tonight, eh?"

Ahlia nodded. His voice was high, and clear, and deeply expressive.

"That was a good choice," Willy said, getting to his feet, and dusting himself off, the song still floating around in his head: _'I'm just living on nerves and feelings…'_

Ahlia got up, too.

'_and coming to people's parties…' _The song had a mind of its own, and the lyric: '_you seem to have a broader sensibility' _inspired him. "Would you like to help me, Ahlia?" Willy asked. "I signed up to do dinner, for the Buckets, because I over-estimate myself sometimes. Will you be my hostess?"

Ahlia nodded eagerly.

"Good. I'm off to have Nôtla whip something up. I'm not ready to take off the gloves."

Ahlia had no idea what Willy was talking about. Did he mean that? She had _never_ seen Willy without gloves, and no one she knew had, either.

"We're waiting for Charlie and Nora to get back. When they do, they'll want to freshen up. We can have spaghetti, and it can cook while they're doing that." Spaghetti was a good idea, and utensil using with spaghetti was fun: all that twirling. Willy waved a hand at the doors to the Buckets' suite. "Can you tell them the plan? And keep them entertained? Noah will be here soon. I'll arrive with the food."

Ahlia nodded her head again. Anything Nôtla, the Oompa-Loompas' distinguished chef, made, would almost rival anything Willy made, and Ahlia loved spaghetti, almost as much as she loved cacao beans. Clasping her hands together delightedly, she loved more than either the prospect of having dinner with Willy, and his new friends. She couldn't believe her luck at the invitation, and 'hostess' put stars in her eyes.

The crisis effectively sorted, with a bouncy sashay to his step, Willy walked away, but he twirled back, grinning. "I doubt Terence will be with them, but if he is, he can use the Voyager suite." Willy snorted with laughter: exploring, and a reference to space, all rolled into one. Keen.

Ahlia, not caring why Willy was laughing, but thrilled he was, gave him a thumbs up, and skipped to the door, her face a study in happiness, making ready to knock before she pushed the recessed, Oompa-Loompa height button that would release the catch in the knob high above her head.

Willy shook his head, gratefully watching Ahlia do so blithely what he found so paralyzing. He knew he had nothing on the Oompa-Loompas vis-à-vis suffering: their homeland made anything that happened to him, in his life, seem like a cake-walk. Willy hadn't intended to involve Ahlia in his comparatively trivial problems, but inadvertently, he had. "I'm sorry," he murmured, as he turned away.

Ahlia heard the muffled 'I'm sorry' without understanding, and happy only a moment before, now she watched the retreating figure sadly. Sadly, because the words meant Willy didn't know—and he should—that in her book, he'd never done anything he need feel sorry about.

* * *

><p>Nora, waving at the cab as it turned out of sight at the corner, wondered to herself at the speed with which things had already changed. Charlie, eager to get back to The Chocolate Factory, hadn't looked back, and Terence, wondering if he had done the right thing by not objecting to Nora's request to stay, was lost in musings of his own.<p>

Seeing neither of her departing companions wave back, Nora listlessly dropped her hand to her side, as if she believed in some way it had betrayed her: it should have held the power to turn their heads. It hadn't. Disappointed, flexing her fingers, Nora turned her hand over and back, as if she might find some traitorous defect: but if there was a flaw, she couldn't find it.

Saying nothing, Dr. Grant's keen eyes watched her movements carefully, and aware of his interest, Nora smiled wanly. "Looks like I'm relegated to the sidelines," she said, flatly.

"I'd say, dear lady, in this instance, you're relegated to the sidewalk. Shall we go back in? I don't think it will get any warmer out here till morning, at the earliest, and maybe not even then." Dr. Grant started up the steps to his door, Nora following. "They grow up, you know— I know you do, but the knowing doesn't help with the shock— and I do say, it is a shock, yes, indeed, a shock— the first time something big happens, isn't it? New horizons, and whatnot— they move on."

Nora nodded behind him. "I never thought the horizon would turn overnight into a chocolate factory," she muttered.

Reaching the living room, Dr. Grant let the remark pass. The Chocolate Factory was irrelevant: he never thought overnight he'd acquire a son, but thanks to Cyn, whose horizons were always more fanciful than his, he had. The thought brought him inner warmth a fire never could.

"I don't know what I can offer you, but if you'd like to know more about Cyn, as you've asked, I can rustle something up while we talk," said Dr. Grant, moving into the kitchen. He relished the chance to talk about his beloved Cynthia, the way a battery relishes being recharged. "I say, perhaps some tea, and some toast, with jam. That's easy."

Nora, following, was loath to impose on Dr. Grant without contributing something, and as it _was_ dinnertime, and neither of them had eaten, she stepped briskly up to the cabinets, in the manner of Willy Wonka, and began poking through them. Nora hoped Dr. Grant didn't mind, but if he lived with Willy, this behavior should be old hat for him. She laughed to herself at her little joke. "Excuse me," she said, "but if you'll be kind enough to tell me more about your wife, I'll be kind enough to whip up some dinner for us." In one of the cabinets she struck gold. "Oh, look! You have spaghetti. How does that sound?"

Dr. Grant nodded his pleasure, and together, they prepared the meal.

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. This likewise applies to the quoted song, "People's Parties" by Joni Mitchell. Thanks for reading, and pass along what you think._

_dionne dance: Yup— that dentist! And then there's this dentist. You'll recognize the menu, and thanks for re-posting your review when it didn't show up. Kate2015: The togs: imitation—the sincerest form of flattery, or maybe Dr. Grant, indulging his sense of humor. Thanks for reviewing._


	6. A Lot to Learn

The cheery crackling of the fire in the grate was long gone, and now there was barely a lick of flame to stroke the burning logs. The embers that remained glowed red, warming the two people sitting comfortably in the armchairs snuggly pulled up close, taking full advantage of the radiating heat. With a gentle, swooshing sigh, a log surrendered to its irresistible fate, and broke in two; its collapse spraying a firework of sparks, fanning up the chimney.

The dancing light and soft sound stirred Nora from her trance: like the fire, by this time, she and Dr. Grant were quiet; contemplating their earlier conversation, in companionable silence. Glancing at the clock on the mantlepiece, it alarmed her to read six minutes shy of 11 o'clock. "My word," Nora gasped, dismayed. "Look at the time! It's frightfully late. I should never have kept you this long. I didn't mean to."

Dr. Grant languidly raised a depreciating hand. "I wouldn't care if you had, dear lady. I've enjoyed this evening immensely, and just between you and me, at my age, I say, sleep is a friend you don't spend as much time with as you'd like." He turned to look at the clock himself. "Ah. It is late, if you have plans for tomorrow involving anything other than sleeping in. I'll call a cab at once, and send you on your way."

Nora nodded. Despite his protestations to the contrary, Dr. Grant looked tired, and he rose from his chair as though through quicksand.

"I didn't mean to stir up sad memories," she offered. Dr. Grant, having made the call, remained standing by the telephone table, and Nora rose to join him.

"You didn't. They are happy memories of Cyn, every one. What's sad is that they _are_ memories." He turned away slightly. "I say."

Nora put a hand on his arm, and smiling faintly, he placed his cool hand on top of her warm one, patting it gently. The gesture's connection screamed a question—he must be lonely—and Nora, surprising herself with her own nosiness, earnestly blurted out: "Why don't you live in the Factory?"

The effect of the query on Dr. Grant was not what she expected. He broke instantly into a burst of giggles, reminiscent of Willy, that quickly turned to peals of laughter. "Oh, my dear lady," he breathed, between fits. "My dear, dear, lady! You are too funny!"

Nora's face was the picture of profound confusion.

"I am very happy where I am, and Willy sees to it that I lack for nothing." Dr. Grant made a sweeping gesture with his arm, to include his very comfortable surroundings in his statement. "I doubt I'd ever get to the bottom of Willy's generosity, so I don't try. I'm very happy with what I have, and I'm also very happy with my sanity. It's one of my most treasured possessions— a possession I can boast I _have_ living here, and a possession, I say, I would shortly lose, living in Willy's Factory."

Dr. Grant seated himself on the arm of one of the chairs, and studied Nora appraisingly. "I say, dear lady— isn't that why you stayed this evening? To see if I can help you answer the question whether _you_ can keep _your_ sanity, if you live there?"

Nora flushed a bright crimson, wondering if that's why she _was_ here tonight. She hadn't, when Terence and Charlie left, expected to stay, but some force or other hadn't let her leave. What was it?

Dr. Grant softened the edge that had crept into his voice when he saw the blush. "I didn't mean to imply you weren't welcome: you're very welcome, and I've enjoyed our chat, but Willy and I are very different people. We had Cyn in common, and each of us prizing her is enough to make us prize each other— but my kind of crazy is conventionality, and Willy's kind of crazy is creativity." Dr. Grant folded his hands in his lap. "The rub, I say, is my kind of crazy, cramps his kind of crazy, and we're both the losers for it— don't frown, it's no one's fault— it's perfectly alright to like different things— but after all he and I have been through, I hold him in too high a regard, to put myself in a position where I make life more difficult for him."

Nora turned the words over in her mind, shying, to no avail, away from the glaring comparison. Misgivings born of conventionality… cramping Willy's style… in his own Factory. Her family, impeding his creative abilities… The thoughts were terrifying, but more terrifying was Willy Wonka, inviting them in, proving he was willing to take the risk. Now Nora could understand why Willy was proceeding slowly: the stakes were high.

Nora shivered at the ramifications of being responsible for hamstringing a great talent, but it was Cyn who popped into her mind. She had listened, all night, to stories of an imaginative, creative, vibrant personality, and yet… "Why did Cyn become a lawyer? Isn't that a rather defined profession, for such a free spirit?"

"Ah," purred Dr. Grant, ever so slightly nodding his head. "In that you have asked an astute question, my dear lady— very astute. Why indeed? Cyn could have been an artist, or a designer, or an author, or a poet, or a— well— anything she liked, but Cyn also wanted the comforts life had to offer, and creative pursuits, for nearly everyone pursuing them, are notoriously low paying. I think she thought with the financial angle handled, she'd have time left over to devote to the creative endeavors."

"I see."

"I don't think you do, Nora."

Nora's head snapped up, as she realized Dr. Grant had used her given name, for the first time all evening.

Dr. Grant continued in a low voice. "There's never enough time for it all. Cyn made the thing she wanted second, the thing she did first, only to find there was no time left for the things she wanted first. Fear of what the future would, or wouldn't bring her, kept her from following her heart, and I think Cynthia regretted her decision. Not all the time, mind you— her life was a full one— but in the background— a little niggle, every now and again, of opportunities missed, for the sake of playing it safe."

Dr. Grant looked wistfully into the past, but cheerfully returned. "_I _didn't regret her decision, mind you— not one itty bit. I applaud it as the sensible course of action, and so does most of the rest of society. Had she followed her heart, right off the bat, I'd never have met Cyn, and her _clients_ didn't regret it, either. Cyn used her creativity to wangle a way out of any difficulty, but _she_ regretted it. Right up, that is, until the day Cyn brought Willy into our lives— then everything she'd done made perfect sense, and she was glad for all of it. She did her best to pass what she knew on to Willy, but especially, I say, making sure Willy followed _his _heart, straight away, and gosh darn the consequences!" Dr. Grant looked ruefully at Nora. "As Willy would say."

"And gosh darn them he did."

Dr. Grant nodded. "He did. Despite all the grief. Thea would be proud."

Nora cocked her head.

Dr. Grant laughed. "Don't tell me I didn't mention that. I called her 'Cyn'. Willy called her 'Thea'. 'CynThea'. Simple, but Cyn loved it."

Nora laughed. It was so Willy. There was a knock on the door, and the sound made Nora jump. The cab was here, the visit about to end, but the names involving Cyn made her suddenly badly want to know one last thing. As Dr. Grant crossed to the door, her words tripping over themselves, Nora breathlessly nearly shouted her last question. _"Why does he call you Libby?"_

His hand on the doorknob, Dr. Grant's breath caught in his throat, expelling itself in a low hiss. Nora's desperation to know carried in her voice, and he turned to her, his face inscrutable, before, without a word, he turned back to the door. He took a minute to think, his hand still on the knob. Despite the misgivings she'd expressed tonight—for those not on his wavelength, Willy took some getting used to—his impression of Charlie's mother was a good one; considering how important Charlie was to Willy, and his mother to Charlie, anything that helped Nora, helped Willy. Nora should know.

His decision made, Dr. Grant opened the door, and the cabbie on the doorstep tipped his hat. Dr. Grant spoke quietly, and the cabbie left.

"He'll wait in his cab," Dr. Grant explained. "I'll just be a minute." He left the room, and shortly came back holding photographs. "Dr. Wonka didn't make any trouble for us after he packed up his house, and moved without Willy. These photos are a big part of the reason. Cyn took them before I took the braces off, with that in mind."

Nora took the photos handed her, and after seeing the first two, sank into the nearest chair. She looked through the rest silently. "How did he sleep?" she whispered. "How did he eat? He can't even close his mouth." Pale, she looked up. "How long were they on?"

"For years, but in that monstrosity, _ten_ _minutes_ would be too long. Willy called me 'The Liberator' because I took those braces off, but over the years he's shortened it to 'Libby'." Dr. Grant sagged a little, and his voice became wistful. "He doesn't know I know, but I wish he did. Sinclair is so formal sounding, and I say, with all we've been through, getting on as I am, I'd rather be Libby."

Nora handed the photos back. Her voice was a hoarse croak, her eyes unwilling to focus on anything specific, lest they see those pictures again. "Thanks for showing me. I had no idea. What kind of father would do that to their son? What kind of mother would let him?"

Dr. Grant took the photos back, and held them thoughtfully, thinking back, before looking at Nora sadly. "That dear lady, you'll have to ask him. In all the time I've known him— and this goes for Cyn, too— she'd have told me— Willy never mentioned anything about his natural mother, or what happened to her."

"Nothing? Ever? What do you mean, what happened to her?"

"Not one word: his mother was out of the picture long before we moved here. Willy never even told us her name. Sometimes I wonder if he knows it."

"Gone? What do the neighbors say? Someone must have seen her leave."

"The neighbors say everything under the sun, the moon, and the stars," said Dr. Grant, disparagingly, with a flip of his wrist. "Take your pick— that she had an affaire, and ran off— that she _didn't_ have an affaire, but ran away all the same— that to avoid scandal, they spirited her away; secretly, in the middle of the night, and took her to an asylum for the hopelessly insane, where she languishes still."

Dr. Grant's accompanying smile had a rictus quality to it, that made Nora think Dr. Grant wouldn't mind seeing Dr. Wonka languishing in an asylum for the hopelessly insane.

"I say, Dr. Wonka doesn't say it outright, but that last version is the one he prefers. The braces made Willy odd enough, but that story— why, yes, indeedy, _that_ story— made people wonder if there wasn't something inherently wrong with Willy, too— I say, you know— crazy mother, crazy son." Dr. Grant tried to keep his voice light on this odious subject, but his hands shook with inward rage, his eyes glittering, and he had no choice but to pause until the visceral wave of emotion passed.

Nora waited, feeling numb.

"That's the story Dr. Wonka tacitly goes along with, I think because it so neatly explained Mrs. Wonka's absence, and made people sufficiently leery of odd little Willy, to steer well clear of him."

"Tacitly? Mrs. Wonka?"

Dr. Grant nodded. "Rumor has it, Dr. Wonka always referred to her as Mrs. Wonka, and she called him Dr. Wonka— that's not so strange— it's an old-fashioned custom, quite common in its day and age." There was no need to mention that that day and age, wasn't _this_ day and age, and that _did_ make it strange, or that the rest of the rumor was that Willy's mother's name was Mina. Deciding to respect Willy's privacy in a matter Willy never mentioned himself, Dr. Grant kept that detail to himself: for all he knew, the rumor was wrong. "Dr. Wonka never confirms, or denies, any of the stories, but he nods sympathetically when he hears that one."

A silence fell like a pall, and neither looked at the other.

Drained, and sickened by the aftermath of the rage that had swept through him, Dr. Grant brought the evening to a close: the cabbie was waiting. "I say, you'd best get home." Summoning his manners, he gestured graciously toward the door. "Forgive me if I've upset you, but Dr. Wonka's treatment of Willy is upsetting."

Nora rose on unsteady feet: upsetting was an understatement, and Dr. Grant was as pale as she felt. She smiled wanly, not wanting to end the evening on such a sour note. "May I call you Libby?"

Dr. Grant smiled at the unexpected question: it was one he could happily answer. "Of course, dear lady." Offering her his arm, Nora latched on to it, as if, lost in the wilderness of a world she didn't want to imagine, she had found a path to guide her. Together, they made their way down the steps to the waiting cab.

Before Nora got in, Dr. Grant palmed her enough money for the fare. Having none herself, she took it, but questioningly.

"I doubt, as often as Willy has need of a cab, he has an account with this company, and that fine point of payment has probably escaped him. I say," Dr. Grant chuckled faintly, "as Willy said the fare is on him, I'll be his proxy."

Nora smiled bravely in return, the things uncovered by her throw away question about the nickname 'Libby', still making her sick.

Only a minute to go. Nora was safely in the cab, but seeing the pinched pallor around her mouth and eyes, Dr. Grant, before closing the door, hesitated for the slightest second more. "I say, Nora, those were grim times— but keep in mind— moving his house wasn't the worst thing Dr. Wonka did to Willy. It was one of the nicest."

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, and if it pleases you, please review._

_dionne dance, Celeste K. Raven, and 07kattho: your reviews are a joy. Thank you._


	7. Return

Nora slid smoothly across the leather of the cab's worn bench seat, until the sagging of its decrepit springs decided for her where she should sit. Oblivious to the dilapidation, Nora settled herself for the ride, her mind ping-ponging between imagining Willy, and then Charlie, in the nightmarish situations she'd heard and seen this evening. She found her mind wouldn't imagine those things for Charlie, making her feel all the worse for Willy.

"Where to, lady?" the cabbie asked dejectedly, sorely disheartened to find he'd failed to drop the meter's arm when he started waiting. His calloused hand reached for it now, dropping it wearily.

The normalcy of the cabbie's routine question and tired voice pierced Nora's reverie. Mechanically, she leant forward and told him; but her voice sounded strange to her, and having answered, she leant back, willingly retreating into an icy numbness, imagining nothing at all.

The driver grunted an acknowledgement Nora didn't hear, and the cab pulled away from the curb.

* * *

><p>"You sure this is where ya wanna go, lady?"<p>

Her driver's incredulous voice roused Nora from her daze. The rumble of the cab's engine, and the vapor of the exhaust filled her senses. Beyond the rising vapor, between the puffs that obscured everything else, Nora made out the lately modified outline of her old house, and the broken cabbages, trampled underfoot, in the garden she'd so lovingly tended.

Lovingly. Quick tears stung the backs of her eyes, as the pity and pain smoldering within her surged to the surface and found a focus: her cabbages—her dear, sweet, innocent cabbages. Nora's thin hand reached meaninglessly toward them and then dropped sadly to her lap. Someone should have saved them: gathered them up, for some useful purpose. Like brave little soldiers, her hardy, uncomplaining cabbages had done their duty: sacrificing their sad little cabbagey lives, one after the other, so her family might live. Blurred through the lens of her tears, it broke her heart to see the battered shapes of the survivors being ground into pulp.

"There ain't nothin' here, lady," declared the cabbie, "'cept some kinda dump, and that rott'n old house that's bein' tore down."

Touching the back of her hand to her eyes, Nora blinked back the stinging tears. Her driver's uncaring tone reminded her the world was an uncaring place, and falling to pieces in maudlin sentimentality wasn't going to change that. Honestly! Tears over cabbages—whatever was wrong with her?

"That rotten old house, I'll have you know, is _my_ _family's_ rotten old house, and it's _not_ being torn down," Nora sniffed defiantly; but she muttered her words carefully under her breath, wanting to give this uncaring man and his cavalier attitude what for, but feeling too spent to try to explain. Recovering her bearings, if not her composure, Nora was a little shocked to discover she'd given this address in the first place: but then, from deep within, she found the strength for a half-hearted laugh. Her new, correct address would never be believed, and this one, at least, got her within walking distance.

"It ain't funny, lady, an' if this ain't where ya wanna go, yer wastin'… Hey!" The cabbie interrupted himself with his own exclamation, his eyes widening in surprise. "Will ya looky up there at the Chocolate Factory! It's all lit up! Like daylight!" The cabbie's hand tapped the steering wheel reflexively, and he let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be."

Nora turned her head to the glow of light her carousel of emotions hadn't let her notice before, at the top of the hill.

"I ain't seen it lookin' like that since afore that Wonka fella' closed the place down." The grizzled man sat back in his seat, shaking his head with childlike wonder at the spectacular sight. "Ain't it somethin'?"

Her cabbie was right. The usually dark Chocolate Factory was ablaze in light. A soft smile crept on to Nora's face: she had wondered if she should wait till morning to return—it was very late, and she had no idea Willy's views on late night excursions—but this took the guesswork out of it. The Factory looked lovely, and beckoning: bright white lights shone in lantern sconces built into the outer wall, with the buildings and chimneys bathed in brilliant blues.

Nora's soft smile became a full-fledged grin, and she laughed merrily. This was probably Willy's idea of leaving a light on in the window. "Take me up there, please. It's so pretty. Let's go and see it up close."

"Right you are, lady," agreed her driver cheerfully. He coaxed his transmission into first gear, and stepped on the gas.

* * *

><p>"You sure yer gonna be okay up here, lady?" It baffled the cabbie that his withdrawn, sorta mousey fare had opted to end her trip at the top of the hill, outside the very gates of the mysteriously lit up Chocolate Factory. "It's late, ya know, an' there ain't nothin' open up here now. T' tell ya the truth, even bein' lit up an' all, bein' this close t' this factory a' night is givin' me the creeps."<p>

Nora leant forward to pay the man, his uneasiness prompting her to counter with lightheartedness. "What would Mr. Wonka say, if he heard you calling his Chocolate Factory creepy?" She stifled a giggle, knowing she was paying this man with Willy Wonka's money—albeit twice removed—and for waiting for her without dropping the meter, Nora included a generous tip.

The cabbie, glad of the hefty tip that would mean a special treat for his family—maybe part of it some Wonka candy—looked flummoxed by the question and his passenger's attitudinal about-face. "It don't matter what Wonka says, lady. He ain't gonna hear nothin' I say."

Nora tossed her head and whispered back impishly, "Well, if Mr. Wonka 'ain't gonna hear nothin',' then he's going to hear something. You said it yourself— look how close to his Factory we are. It wouldn't surprise me if Mr. Wonka didn't have this _whole_ area bugged."

The cabbie blanched, looking fretfully this way and that, but catching himself, he felt like a fool. This woman, gettin' in his face about his grammar, didn't know any more about Wonka than he did. "Yer pullin' my leg, lady, and I gotta go. You gonna be okay or not?"

Nora smiled, amused by her cabbie's bravado, and touched by his concern. "I'll be fine," she said, as she stepped out of the cab. Now that she was actually standing on the pavement in front of the Factory, her lightheartedness evaporated, and she closed the door with a confidence she didn't feel. Her voice carried conviction, but Nora wondered if what she said was true. She still wasn't inside, and she had no clue how Willy would react to her fraternizing with his godfather. She hoped Terence would have stopped her, if it was a really bad idea, but honestly, she wouldn't have listened to him, and fiddle-dee-dee, Terence didn't know everything—and he wasn't in charge of _her_.

Seeing his generous tipper just standing there, the cabbie hesitated; but the squawking of his radio alerted him to another fare, so with a shake of his head and a muttered "It's yer neck, lady"—on account of the bugging comment—he drove away.

* * *

><p>Nora watched the cab roar off in a cloud of bluish exhaust, and with the street now devoid of anything moving, she hesitantly tried the Chocolate Factory's left hand gate. The cabbie was right again: it <em>was<em> her neck: but the gate opened easily at her touch, and the breath she let out in relief was louder than the slight sound made by the magnetic lock on the gate releasing. The bugs and cameras the cabbie doubted existed were working perfectly, and the gate's opening proved she was still on the 'insider' list.

Taking a calming breath, Nora stood inside the gate and studied the Factory's expansive courtyard. In the moonlight, it loomed before her like a sinister No Man's Land, and for a moment, Nora shivered to think she crossed it at her peril. "Don't be a silly goose," she whispered. The sound of her own voice was soothingly familiar, and she scolded herself for letting the cabbie's creepy assessment make her jumpy. Even so, making her own assessment, Nora decided to hug the wall, as she had seen Willy do.

Her fingertips lightly brushing the cold stones reassuringly, Nora walked along the wall until she reached the loading bays. She had driven the truck from here, but the closed up bays were uninviting, and she wasn't of a mind to look for another way in. Following the bays toward the main building, she crossed the remaining bit of courtyard, and boldly strode up the steps to the left most door of the entrance complex. Gingerly trying it, Nora found that it, too, on silent, well-oiled hinges, opened easily.

Whew! She was in! The Chocolate Factory—cracked! With relief Nora sagged against the door, her hand still on the handle. She stayed that way for a moment, and thought about her next problem: how to get from here to the suite. Then she laughed, and stood up, because the route was a mystery to her and the Factory was huge. She didn't stand a snowball's chance of finding her way on her own. Willy must know that. Nora took a step forward, and then another, and another, until she was through the narthex, and into the main hall. There, on the floor, sitting on a petit, golden doily, she spotted movement.

"You're not a breadcrumb," Nora laughed, picking up the small, inanimate object responsible for the movement. "You're a Square-Candy-that-Looks-Round, and you look darn cute. Are you playing breadcrumb tonight?" Nora looked around for another one, that might show her the direction to go, a clever idea, but there were no more Square-Candies. There was Willy Wonka, standing like a statue, in a shadow in a recessed area along the wall.

* * *

><p><em>Warmest thanks to <strong>dionne dance<strong> and **Celeste K. Raven** for your reviews. __I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think._


	8. A Chat With the Landlord

"Breadcrumbs attract ants," said Willy somberly, his face deadly serious—as if he thought sugar didn't. Wasn't _that _a hoot, and inwardly, Willy was laughing.

Nora's hand dropped to her side, still holding the candy. She'd never seen Willy not nervous before, and Willy was not nervous. So assured was this person, she thought someone might be playing a trick: dressing like Willy to fool her. It didn't seem likely Willy would wait up to escort her back to her family himself.

Now that he was sure Nora had seen him, Willy stepped smoothly out of the shadows, halting well before he was within arm's reach of her.

It was no trick: as he stepped into the light, Nora could see it was really Willy. Though caught off-balance at seeing him, after what she'd learned about Willy's past this evening, her first inclination was to step forward and lay her hand comfortingly on his arm—a touch said so much more than words, and far less clumsily—but the distance Willy so purposefully kept between them made that a non-starter. Of course. With a twinge of sadness at all that Willy was missing by avoiding even simple human contact, Nora raised her hand with the Square Candy in it to her heart instead.

Willy had known it would throw Nora for a loop if he met her himself, but—an unexpected surprise—he hadn't known what a time of it he'd have keeping a straight face. It was the darnedest thing! The breadcrumbs and sugar bit aside, hearing Nora talk out loud to a Square-Candy, and call it darn cute, was darn funny. Willy stood taller to make it easier to stay serious, consciously bringing his keen amethyst eyes to bear on her. Willy was dying to know how he felt about whatever Nora had heard tonight, and he wouldn't know that until he knew how _she_ felt about whatever she'd heard tonight. This was his golden opportunity to find out—he almost laughed putting it that way—but Willy believed he wouldn't find out the truth unless he came across as imposing, and that meant no laughing. Having already taken his turn, Willy stood majestically, waiting for Nora to take hers. What she said next, and how she said it, would tell him lots.

Nora took a step back, as if the thoughts running through her head were crowding her, making her need more room. The glow of the Factory, lit up for the first time in years; the charmingly whimsical candy welcome; the glimpse into Willy's past; Charlie's adoration and complete trust of this man; the caliber of the people she was meeting who knew and thought the world of him; his generous invitation to her family to come and live in his Factory, despite the harm it might do him: when did all these separate things combine to become a heap? A heap of evidence that this oddly somber someone sizing her up, was someone on whose side she now knew she unequivocally wanted to count herself. Why, good gracious, she thought: that would be tonight: right this minute!

Willy was studying her thoughtfully, waiting for her, and resisting the urge to squirm—Willy _never_ looked at you directly, so this was very strange—thoughtfully Nora realized she only felt intense curiosity. There was no feeling of mistrust: neither from him nor for him. Had the mistrust she'd felt up to now been a reflection of the mistrust Willy felt? He certainly had cause. Nora quickly averted her eyes as one of those causes popped into her head: those braces. Try as she might, Nora couldn't resist imagining those braces, on this man, and wanting to get off on the right foot with him now, she knew that what her mind was up to was the wrong foot, absolutely. Not being able to stop herself, Nora did her best to look away.

She still wasn't speaking and looking for a clue, his deep violet eyes steady, Willy catalogued every nuance of Nora's movements, minutely analyzing each one. He was rusty at this now, but he'd been good at it once. Then it had been a matter of survival. First cradling The Eyes in her palm, protectively bringing it close to her heart, Nora had thoughtfully taken a step back, giving him more space. Willy liked that, and almost smiled. Then she hastily averted her eyes, but at the same time—the nervous flicks of her head in his direction giving her away—itched to look at him.

One side of Willy's jaw clenched in a lopsided frown. That behavior meant only one thing: she'd seen the braces. Willy carefully kept his shoulders square, but sighed almost silently all the same: That mare's nest. He knew if she'd seen the photos, it would be irresistible _not_ to try to imagine those, but at least Nora was doing the right thing—looking away—so determined to see this through, Willy stayed put. It wasn't so bad: Nora seemed as nervous as he, and he was doing a _far _better job than she was of faking aplomb. Inordinately pleased with himself, before Nora could see it, Willy let go his frown and likewise squashed the lurking smile that threatened to replace it. Nora's absence aside, dinner had gone well, and so far, Nora's return wasn't going badly either. It was hard to keep his good spirits under wraps, but remaining remote was important in this game.

While he waited for her move—Nora was taking a bizarrely long time to think up something to say—Willy wondered idly if he should drop on over to Libby's, and pick up those photos—why, gosh darn it, _were_ they still floating around? The Dentist was long out of the picture—and having got his hands on 'em, he could burn 'em—yeah, burn 'em: that's it— Willy's mind floated on. An icky, inky, revolting little delicacy for his fiery friend the incinerator to enjoy. Hm. The image of the flames, tenderly licking the edges of the curling, shrinking sheets—turning them into tiny pieces of blackened ash—was inviting lovely; and wasn't it funny—before the blackness, the chemicals on those sheets would burn in a riot of glorious colors. Hm, again… his focus beginning to stray with these toasty imaginings, Willy lifted his index finger and thumb to his chin, considering.

Catching the motion, the image of the braces imagined and banished, Nora turned back to find Willy surprisingly lost in thought, but his eyes flashed back on her instantly, the hand on his chin dropping like lightning to his side, once he realized she had turned.

Nora was again struck by the difference in Willy's demeanor tonight: in place of the nervous Nelly she knew, bent on avoiding people at all costs, stood a man the picture of confidence: daunting in a way that verged on frightening, even with that hat and silly haircut. Was this the way Willy was in his Factory? Or the way he was when he knew you better? Or, Nora gulped involuntarily, the way Willy was when he _didn't care_ to know you better?

Nora thought of the newspaper interviews given by the bratty kids and their parents after the tour, finding their harsh characterizations of the famous Chocolatier, in this manifestation of the man, believable. Standing here, Willy was like a cactus: though immobile, unapproachable. Maybe this was the way Willy was when you were in big trouble. Nora had no idea, and letting her imagination run rampant, speculating, wasn't doing her any good.

Nora turned to the small talk remedies she'd been taught to use in awkward situations like this, discarding every one. Late, isn't it? Still up? Nice night. Dinner good? She knew they were all as wrong as they were obvious. It didn't help that she never imagined Willy would greet her return himself. Ahlia, perhaps—no, too young to stay up—but maybe one of the other Oompa-Loompas: she'd met a few more today. Why not Noah, with a map? She knit her brow in consternation. Noah was a man of few words, but he was adaptable: maybe by now, Noah didn't need a map.

Growing tired of waiting for Nora to say something, and judging it a bad sign she hadn't, Willy subtly shifted his stance, his appraising eyes now half-closed, but still never leaving her. Deliberately slowly, he swapped his walking stick to his other hand, managing to make the meaningless exchange somehow ominous.

Nora was running out of time to say the right thing, and she knew it. Willy couldn't know she'd changed her mind about him—Again! She bit her lip with regret at how not-so-long her 'undying' gratitude lasted—if she didn't tell him. Watching him, she knew it was only a matter of minutes, maybe seconds, before he dismissed her as a lost cause, and turned away: politely ignoring her—possibly for years: Joe could vouch that Willy was a master at that. Nora dreaded the place on the sidelines Willy was going to make for her. But how do you tell him, without opening up old wounds, or embarrassing him?

Still at a loss, Nora started to feel panicky, her mind racing. What did you think?—her brain purred at her relentlessly. This is why he's here: to find out what you think! To stall for another speck of time, Nora cleared her throat. The little eyes on the candy in her hand moved at the noise, and she looked down to see them looking up at her. Her brain clicked onto a new track. If doing the right thing, was the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, was the right thing. She caught her breath. If that was the case, a completely out-of-line, none-of-her-business, insensitive question was the right thing. Ridiculous, but with nothing else coming to mind, Nora took the chance. After all, she'd be saying it to a man who made candies too adorable to eat.

Taking a deep breath, standing straight and tall, Nora looked her would be benefactor boldly in the eye. "How can you possibly be so cheerful, Willy, after all that?"

Her artful question releasing him the right way from his dreadful suspense, Willy giggled fiendishly. He moved his walking stick diagonally across his chest, protectively, but Nora saw his eyes, and they were sparkling. Her heart skipped a beat at her daring, but thanking her lucky stars, she was glad to find herself on the right track.

"See Spot run," said Willy, bringing the giggle under control, his face falling slowly back into its somber cast. "Run, Spot, run." Staying somber continued to prove difficult for him, and with a little flourish, he relaxed his grip on his walking stick, returning it to his side. The giggle was in appreciation for Nora's standing tall, refusing to be cowed, but this wasn't over yet.

Having answered Nora's question, perfectly reasonably in his view, but in a way he knew most parens—heck! Why fight it?—most people considered cryptic and obscure, Willy waited expectantly for the shadow of annoyance, or worse, to flit across her face. If it did, that would tell him more about what he wanted to know.

In another unexpected, but pleasing surprise, Willy saw no flit, and the game was still on. Whatever Nora had heard, had made her more tolerant, without any sign of pity. Willy loathed pity directed at him, almost as much as he loathed eating breakfast cereal. Almost, because pity directed at a man of his wealth was highly unlikely, but you never knew when you might run across breakfast cereal: it was everywhere. Increasingly interested, Willy waited for Nora's next move.

Nora knew a non-sequitur when she heard one, but she'd been around Willy long enough now to know, that what might seem random made perfect sense if you saw it from Willy's perspective. The trick was seeing it from Willy's perspective, and she despaired of that. It would take years, she knew, to learn—if that was even possible. Confused about how to keep going—but knowing Willy expected her to—she studied the carpet, as if written in its threads what to do next would leap out at her. It wasn't, and it didn't, but something better did: from nowhere—in a supernova of insight—it dawned on Nora that only Willy knew where Willy was coming from, and no one but Willy ever would. So the trick wasn't figuring out where Willy was coming from if you couldn't guess: the trick was knowing he was coming from _somewhere_, and letting him explain. The laughter of salvation bubbled out of her, and she looked up with a smile.

Willy's somber expression was gone, replaced by a sly smile of his own. If Nora was laughing, she was on to something, and it might be the right something. Hallelujah!

Caught off-balance by her own boldness, and his openness, Nora looked at Willy shyly, but Willy, for Charlie's sake as much as his own, nodded encouragingly: for a paren, Nora was doing well.

Nora took another deep breath. "That's from a book."

Willy nodded. "It is. A book any four, almost five-year old, can read." No flit, and assumed sense: that was enough for Willy, for now. With the evaluation satisfactorily over, there was no need to explain further and Willy moved on. He felt fine about Nora spending the evening with Libby: points and bonus points for both. Using the top of his walking stick, Willy pointed to the Square-Candy-that-Looks-Round and asked unguardedly, "Are you gonna eat that?"

Rolling with the change of subject, Nora sensed in Willy's now relaxed manner and casual speech she had crossed a line she needed to cross, and she was still standing. Relief filled her, and she answered as if talking to an old friend. "My father eats them, but I can't. They look at you, and they're too cute."

"I've heard that," Willy sighed, tilting his head. "Darn cute."

Nora ducked her head. Willy was funny, but she was serious about her reasoning for not eating them, and didn't want to laugh.

The tip of the walking stick tapped the carpet, once, quickly. "He's the grumpy one."

Nora looked back up, surprised Willy was continuing the conversation. "Sometimes."

"Why did he try to follow me?"

The fact that Willy Wonka wondered about people, when everyone she knew wondered about Willy Wonka, tickled Nora immensely, and she abandoned trying not to laugh, giggling like a school girl. "That was the morning you took Charlie's model of the Factory to your office."

"My model of the Factory," Willy interrupted, standing stiffly. "Charlie gave it to me." He looked at her reprovingly from under his hat, and the eyes she could just see, peeking out from under the brim, were dark. "You know that. You were there."

Nora's heart missed another beat, afraid she'd broken the tenuous thread of understanding just spun between them; but as she tended to assume the worst, she decided to assume the best: if Willy took words literally, literally, he was right. Nora swallowed, and forged back into the explanation. "I… um… stand corrected— the morning you took what was formerly Charlie's model of the Factory to your office."

Nora paused, happy to see Willy nod, and relax once more. "Dad wanted to tell you that when you announced The Golden Ticket Contest, he told the family the closest any of us were ever going to get to your Factory was Charlie's," Nora wasn't taking any chances, "now your, model. He wanted to point out he was right and wrong— the model made it to the Factory, and so did we." Nora smiled. "He thought having the model, you'd like hearing the background."

Willy flashed a genuine grin: these parens were on the right page. "He was right. Unexpected irony. I like it." The 'Charlie's, now your, model' she had thrown in for good measure was a tad more literal than even he would be, but flights of fancy demanded accuracy, or they became flights of folly, and folly could hurt you: in big ways. Keeping the details straight was a good way to keep yourself straight, and if he was someday going to let them roam around the Factory on their own, they needed to grasp that, and take it seriously. Whether she knew it or not, Nora was already learning.

Lifting his walking stick, Willy pointed at the golden doily on the floor. "You can keep that. It's part of the irony."

"Irony?"

"About the Factories. Maybe if you use the doily to display The Eyes, your pater won't eat it." Willy giggled as if they were co-conspirators. "The Eyes, I mean— not the doily."

Nora smiled. Willy had made a joke: a simple joke, but he had included her. She felt good: Terence and Charlie: Move over! Without voicing the objection she'd have made earlier in the day, Nora scooped up the small, intricate, golden doily. Libby's earlier question about the fates of successful apprentices was still unanswered in her head, but Willy's comment about irony was making her think: accepting this doily might be about one of them.

Nora could only think of two fates for successful apprentices, and Libby, having asked the question, didn't answer it. Nora held the delicate object admiringly in her hand. Neither path seemed possible here: apprentices strike out on their own, or they take over the business. If the latter, this doily would be Charlie's. Is that what Willy meant when he said the irony of the Factories? That he had Charlie's, and Charlie would one day have his? Did Willy mean that one day, this _entire _Factory would be Charlie's?

Standing in the great Chocolate Factory itself, Willy Wonka standing not three feet from her, the thought made Nora catch her breath. Willy was undeniably making a place for them: if she was right, it meant a dream she'd never dared dream for Charlie—who dreamed himself, every day and night, he might be a part of this Factory—had come true in a way even Charlie had never dared dream.

Happy to see Nora pocket the doily without the expected helping of tiresome fussing, with a twirl, Willy threw his walking stick into the air, and deftly caught it. "Home James! No— that's Terence, and he's already home. Your turn! Follow me."

Having risen, Nora saw that Willy was already headed back toward the shadow he'd appeared from: the vestibule with the spiral staircase, and port for the Great Glass Elevator. "Willy?" Nora was too keyed up now to sleep, and making the most of this, she had another question.

Not impatiently, Willy stopped and turned back, barely hesitating before he answered. "Yes?"

Without the high squeak of nervousness, Willy's voice was melodious. Terence and Charlie were probably used to it, but Nora wasn't. She played back the sound of the 'yes' in her head.

Weight on one leg, his head cocked expectantly, Willy stood easily, his walking stick an afterthought loosely balanced in his gloved hand. Nora's questioning tone when she called out his name made him perfectly content to let her take all the time she liked. After what he'd implied, she might have an inkling of his plans for her son, and if she had…

Nora took the plunge: "The irony you mentioned— do you always say so much, saying so little?"

Willy's answering laughter was gentle indeed. "There's many a slip twixt cup and lip," he said softly, in a velvety voice Nora had never heard before. "I'll grant you you're a quick study, but I haven't said a thing."

* * *

><p><em>Warmest thanks to <strong>dionne dance<strong> and **Celeste K. Raven** for your very welcome reviews. I'm not fond of cliffhangers, but this and the previous chapter would have been far too long as one, and that, __I'm sad to say, __was the likely place to put the break._

_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading and I do hope you'll let me know your impressions. _


	9. Dark and Light

Terence began his walk down the hill from the Chocolate Factory after dinner under the dim bulbs of the street lamps, but he didn't end it that way. As his foot hit the pavement to make the turn into his side street, the pavement around him lit up: Blue. Blue— like the sky, but under his feet: a sky you could walk on. The timing of the change matched so perfectly with his footfall, Terence grinned to think his foot had activated a hidden switch, the transformation catching and spinning him. Shoving his hands into his pockets, instead of making a ninety degree turn, Terence made a one-eighty.

The central stack of the Factory was awash in light. Blue light. It was striking, and Terence wasn't the only one on the street who thought so. Everyone was staring and pointing, wondering what it could mean, their excited agitation growing like a cresting wave as they whispered wild speculations back and forth, drawing together in little knots.

Having just come from the mysterious object being scrutinized, Terence heard the whispers and murmurs with whimsy, and his laughter spilled over unchecked. 'To the Wizard,' he crowed to himself. 'The Wizard will know what it means!' Terence was glad his hands were in his pockets, or he'd be applauding. The Wonderful Wizard of Chocolate! Willy Wonka… He sure does like his theatrics! As if reading his thoughts, a few of the people near Terence tentatively joined in his laughter; but Terence wanted his privacy, and when, with a sidelong glance he responded by laughing harder, his eyes wide and staring, they thought the better of courting his company and sidled away.

Satisfied to have his anonymity back, with calculated silence Terence watched them go. Pushing his hands deeper into his pockets, he stared back up at the Factory. More lights were coming on, and soon the entire complex was lit in blue. The pièce de résistance were the lights along the outer wall: they were white and came on last: the effect against the blue was glorious. Against the brilliance, the light of the street lamps nearest the Factory stood as stars against the sun: washed out, and unseen.

Once the Factory lights were fully lit, the pointing and whispering died away, the onlookers' agitation dying with it. The blue flame that was the Factory made you want to walk up the hill and be near it. Like hapless moths, quite a number of people did just that, but Terence wasn't one of them. The people left looking at the spectacle near to Terence shared his silence, feasting on the display as if they were guests at a sumptuous banquet, seeing a rare and delectable dish for the very first time, drawing sustenance from it. Terence studied the people studying the Factory, and everyone let the time stretch out: this luminous wrinkle in the humdrum of existence from Mr. Wonka as enjoyable as his candy.

Too soon, the currents of their lives pulled most of the people away, but one man in particular had felt the stare: he purposefully passed by Terence on his way away, and as he did, he paused to whisper darkly, "If you ask me— and I know you haven't— Mr. Wonka hasn't been the same since he gave that tour."

Terence kept his reply easy as he tried to see the man's face. "If you say so."

"I do."

The man scurried away, and Terence was left wondering. The man had kept his head down, his face in shadow, but despite the whisper, Terence thought he recognized the voice: it was the reporter he'd talked to in the afternoon.

* * *

><p>The squib in the newspaper tipping Dr. Wonka off to the unfortunate return of Terence James wasn't the only thing that soured the evening: the night sky was damnably wrong as well.<p>

Dr. Wonka, doubting the frozen dinner that had served as his evening meal would stay down the night, snapped off the light as he lowered himself carefully into his sensibly narrow, but luxuriously pillow-topped bed, only to angrily snap it back on when the level of ambient light in the room failed to sufficiently diminish. Light annoyed the living hell out of Dr. Wonka, and he guarded his home's isolated site jealously. To that end, he'd bought up all the parcels of land surrounding his, and having gone to the trouble, he'd effing well know now what, or who, was interfering with his precious darkness.

Throwing back the bedclothes, Dr. Wonka swung his thin legs to the floor, his feet easily finding the slippers positioned just so on the oiled floor boards. His nightshirt, tangled in the lifted sheet, gave him a glimpse of those legs, and he smoothly averted his eyes. He'd been a towering presence once, and the present wasting condition of his body was an irksome disappointment Dr. Wonka bitterly wished he'd been spared. The frown on his face expressing the thought was as sour as month old milk. Mina was lucky in that: she'd do well to thank him for the favor he'd done her. The Boy never thanked anyone for anything, but what did that matter? He was a runt with nothing to lose. Dr. Wonka leant forward, lifting a massaging hand to his forehead. Thinking of those two ingrates was like a knife twisting in his brain, and with a grimace, Dr. Wonka squeezed his eyes tight shut, squeezing away the memories.

That worked well enough. Flicking his eyes open again, a semblance of emotional equilibrium regained, Dr. Wonka noted the hall beyond his door was a wall of darkness. Forgetting to turn off a light elsewhere in the house wasn't the culprit. Dr. Wonka already knew that: failing to put out a light wasn't a mistake he would make.

* * *

><p>Terence tried to brush off his new-found unease, but had no luck. It made sense—what with the Wonka truck activity today and no candy in sight—for the reporter to hang around the Factory, but now it was late, and he was still snooping. Terence saw no sense in it, and the chap was over-the-top with his cloak and dagger delivery: the Factory lights were a bonus, but hardly newsworthy.<p>

Restless, Terence continued on to his flat, only to find when he got there this wasn't where he wanted to be. After making a quick check of the place and grabbing a few things, he retraced his steps until he turned down the hill to make a similar check on the Bucket house. He wondered what he expected to find, but still unsettled, the thought of the lurking reporter wouldn't let him be.

Once there, finding nothing except the house as he'd left it, Terence crawled up into Charlie's loft. Dropping what he carried to the floor and joining it, Terence settled himself against a beam, the better to contemplate the resplendent Chocolate Factory in the distance. The largely dismantled Bucket roof was no impediment at all, and Charlie's view was one of the best in town: far better than the view from Terence's flat.

The Factory did look inviting, and Terence could be living there now. Willy had twice invited him to make the move. The first invitation came on the same day Willy invited Charlie and his family to live there, but it was an aside, made as they'd entered the Bucket house to break the news, and Terence easily ignored it, chalking it up to Willy's nerves, and a misplaced belief in a need for morale support.

Willy bringing up the invitation a second time on Saturday, after Terence agreed to take over the project, forced Terence to erase the chalk and take the offer seriously. For not the first time, Terence wished Willy had taken the hint and let it lie. The first invitation was easy to duck under cover of Charlie's excitement and then his family's, but this next one, made in the Factory's courtyard was tougher. Not wanting to disappoint his friend, but knowing he must, Terence ran blithely through a litany of false objections, to no avail. With cool precision, Willy handily shot them all down, ready and waiting to eagerly shoot down whatever next salvo Terence might lob as well.

In the face of Willy's determination, Terence had finally resorted to telling the truth. "It's too much lock and key for me in here, Willy."

"Out there, it's not _enough_ lock and key, Terence."

"Shall I have mine and you have your view on this?" Terence held up a friendly fist. Willy was nothing it not persistent, and if Willy were going to let this go, he wouldn't want to say the words.

Willy eyed the gesture with tilted head and narrowed eyes, but he came round. Rome wasn't built in a day. Making a fist of his own, Willy barely bumped Terence's: reluctant agreement of the most tepid sort.

Terence shook his head. Agreement was agreement, but tonight Willy had issued invitation-lite, telling Terence he was wasting his time leaving the Factory. 'You'll only have to come back in the morning _spokesman_, and I'm talking early-thirty here, or I'll wind up as spokesman for my spokesman. Ha!' Arranging his sleeping bag as comfortably as he could, Terence cracked open the beer he'd brought from his flat, wondering if in this instance, Willy wasn't right. A shake of Willy's head had spared Terence the need to answer this last time—Willy knew the answer—but the lilt in Willy's voice and sparkle in his eyes as he wished Terence good-night made Terence wonder what the joke was.

* * *

><p>Dr. Wonka stood at his window, his eyes flinty slits in his cold face, his fists clenched so tightly his razor like fingernails dug unheeded into his palms. The glow in the sky was coming from town. It lit up the undersides of the broken layer of clouds in a way that made their dreary shapes look pretty. The clouds prettily returned the favor by magnifying the light until it spread itself like a false dawn, or a heavenly searchlight lighting up the town and its environs from above.<p>

This abomination could only be caused by one thing, and Dr. Wonka knew exactly what that one thing was: that accursed Chocolate Factory. Dr. Wonka had taken steps to put out the light of this wretched phenomena years ago; successful steps, and in his worst nightmares he'd never imagined he'd ever see that glow again. The stream of measured vitriol that flowed under his breath as he cursed the Factory and its ghastly light rivaled the flow of his son's chocolate river.

Sleep was impossible now. The Factory lights were back on, the stalemate was disintegrating, and just like the last time his arrangements had come undone, that shiftless drifter Terry was on the scene. Dr. Wonka's teeth ground into each other as he clenched his jaw and his curses ran dry. Terry was ripping holes in the beautiful isolation Dr. Wonka had so painstakingly engineered, and The Boy had so obligingly bought into. Dr. Wonka let a few more considered curses drip from his lips.

Isolation is the key to control.

* * *

><p>Hours later the sweep of headlights roused Terence from his doze. A car pulled up, but the motor kept running, and no one got out. The car didn't linger long, and as it arced away from the house, Terence could see it was a cab. That could only be Nora, and hadn't she been burning the midnight oil! Settling back down, Terence wondered if Willy had, too.<p>

* * *

><p>Nora hummed quietly to herself as she made her way down the corridor to her temporary home, hugging her thoughts to her as warmly as if they were long-lost friends. Her searching fingers found the little gold doily secreted in her pocket that made it all real. 'It's part of the irony'. Willy had said that.<p>

Nora smiled, remembering. 'I haven't said a thing'. Willy had said that, too. Nora tossed her curls dismissively, renewed humming dispelling all doubt. That's what Willy might think, but the implication of what Willy had said he hadn't said made Nora feel like skipping, and like the carefree girl she'd once been, on weightless toes, skip she did. What Willy said he hadn't said was more than enough for her, and Nora's head was in the proverbial clouds. What Willy said he hadn't said made the Bucket family contribution to the future of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory—if that's what Charlie wanted—priceless. The change of footing changed the way Nora saw everything: she didn't feel like a charity case anymore, and as light and free as that made her feel, she wondered how she stayed tethered to the floor.

Her skips quickly covered the small remaining distance to her family's suite, and confronted with the solid door and the thought of rejoining her family, Nora took a minute to rein in her zeal. Willy positively dripped energy—it was contagious—but it would never do to wake everyone else just because her perhaps faulty interpretation of an innuendo had her bursting with joy. Her hand on the door, Nora waited until she caught her breath, her eyes drawn inexorably back to the end of the hall.

That wild glass elevator Willy was so fond of was gone, and so, to heaven knows where, was he. After having said he hadn't said a thing, Willy hadn't said a thing more, and Nora wondered if that wasn't to make his point. Why ever it was, it hadn't stopped him from gallantly gesturing her into the Great Glass Elevator, and though silence reigned, it was the pleasant silence that springs up between two people at the end of a long day, with a lot to think about, sharing a ride home together. They never had gotten round to any small talk, and once they reached this hall, Willy had left her to finish the trek to her suite on her own. With a tip of his hat, Willy had just as gallantly gestured her out of the Elevator before he determinedly pushed the button that whisked him away. The distinctive 'ding!' of the closing Elevator doors was already fading as Nora turned back and lifted her hand to ask another question, only to lower it again as she watched the Elevator disappear. She'd left it too late.

Just as well, Nora thought, her calm returning. Rome wasn't built in a day. The 'ding' of the Elevator faded from Nora's mind as it had from the hall, replaced by the quiet swish of the door to her quarters opening under her hand.

* * *

><p><em>Warmest thanks to <strong>dionne dance,<strong> **Celeste K. Raven, **and **Kate2015 **__for sharing your thoughts and encouragements with your reviews! __I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. That goes ditto for_ The Wizard of Oz._ Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think._


	10. Some Light

The light from the Chocolate Factory shone through the curtains that covered the windows of his flat as if the material making them were tissue paper. For the umpteenth time, Felix tossed in his bed, sleep as far from his churning brain and twitchy body as Earth is from Andromeda. Giving up to his frustration, Felix threw back his quilt and sat up, swinging his feet to the floor, cradling his head in his hands.

The Chocolate Factory was where it was all happening: unusual doings were the order of the day there today. Felix had been at the factory earlier to see the lights come on—most unusual—and earlier still: the Wonka truck driving down and up the hill in the late afternoon had earned Felix's paper a squib from him, recounting _that_ unusual activity, for everyone to share. Felix ran his stubby fingers through his longish, greasy blond hair, giving his scalp a good scratch. Too bad he hadn't a chance to fact check any of it. WTF. Details. His editor was eager enough to believe the wave of his hand meant 'yes' when he asked, but Felix hadn't really said that. Of course the lights didn't need fact checking: Wonka, God rot him, managed to share _those_ with everyone without any help from _this _reporter.

Felix stood up. That squib wasn't gonna cut it. There was more going on at that bloody factory, just waiting to be uncovered. Tonight might be the night to do it. Felix picked his way among the various piles of clothing strewn around the floor, and pulling this from that, began dressing for the task that lay ahead of him.

* * *

><p>The lights from Nora's taxi had faded, and like them, as the minutes ticked by, so did Terence's will to continue his vigil from Charlie's loft. The restlessness he'd felt earlier was still there, but less so, and admiring the lights from the Factory, still shining, it seemed to Terence that tonight, that was where the action was. That's where the Buckets were.<p>

Terence glanced down at the empty fireplace below him, shadowy and dark. The Buckets' absence made this house so much colder than the fire's absence: the fire had never been what kept this house warm. A rueful laugh escaped Terence at his folly in coming here, his breath curling up like the smoke from the fire that wasn't there in the frigid air, but jumping to his own defense, he put it down to his earlier unsettled feeling. Having never seen them before, the Factory lights were the culprit for that, Terence knew. The lights were a taste of what the Factory was to this town once, and wasn't now, and seeing this showing of what might-have-been got Terence down. But used to them now, Terence clearly saw that Willy was more than capable of coping with Factory security: he didn't need Terence for that, and he didn't need Terence staking out the Buckets' house either.

So be it. Deciding to come in from the cold, and smiling at the phrase's apt nod to the John le Carré novel, Terence rolled up his sleeping bag, descended from Charlie's loft, and started back to his nice, warm, cozy, settled flat.

* * *

><p>It was the light that woke him; the gentle light of the nightlight in the other room, seeping in as his mother pushed open the door and poked her head in. Charlie swam up from sleep before she could get away, struggling amidst the downy covers to prop himself up on his pillow. "Is that you, Mum?" his sleepy voice whispered.<p>

Caught red-handed, and glad of it, Nora quickly crossed to Charlie's bed, sitting down on its edge, giving Charlie a quick hug. "It's me, dear," she whispered back. "I didn't mean to wake you. It's very late."

Charlie sighed contentedly and sank back into his pillow. "That's okay, Mum. You were checking on me."

Nora nodded. She was. Charlie's next question, as she smoothed the covers before tucking them in, surprised her.

"Can we stay?"

"That's an odd question, Charlie." Whatever could Charlie mean by that? Had Willy said something at the dinner she hadn't attended? Nora pursed her lips and slowed her fussing, trying to keep the stab of worry out of her voice. "Do you know something I don't, Charlie?"

Charlie's sigh, laced with resigned exasperation, was patient nonetheless. "No, Mum, _I_ don't know, you do. You were checking on Willy tonight. Did he check out? Can we stay?"

Nora stopped her fussing with the bedclothes. "What makes you say that, dear?" It was true, but how did Charlie know?

"You're always checking on Willy." Charlie frowned. "Not like you check on me. You do it like the teachers check on us at school— like a test. Did he pass this time?"

Charlie was looking at her searchingly, and perplexed, Nora looked back at him. It never occurred to her her misgivings about Willy were burdening Charlie, and it plucked at her heart to know it now. "It's not just Chocolatiers under your watchful eye, is it?" she managed to whisper, her eyes glistening with tears of tenderness.

Charlie only continued to stare searchingly into her eyes, and Nora knew the answer was 'yes'. Charlie was watching her now. In unabashed apology Nora hugged Charlie again, kissing his forehead, keeping her hopefully reassuring smile brightly on him as she finished her tucking-in activities. "Well, don't you worry, sweetheart," she murmured gently, "if we _can't_ stay, it won't be because of any objections from me. In my book, Willy passed with flying colors tonight."

Charlie sighed with perfect happiness, his eyes already closing as he burrowed back down into his warm bed, sleep only a moment or two away. "Good. Then we just need to worry about Grandpa George."

"Grandpa George?"

Charlie barely stifled a yawn, as his head found his pillow. "Grandpa George called Willy 'Candyman'. I don't think Willy liked it, but I can't tell for sure. He smiled a little, but it didn't look right."

Nora sat and watched as Charlie drifted off to sleep. When his breathing became slow and rhythmic, she quietly rose from the bed and tip-toed toward the door.

"You missed it, Mum." The change of the weight on the mattress had woken Charlie again, but he took delight in surprising her, waiting until she thought she had made good her escape before he said anything.

Nora, almost out the door, turned with a smile. "You're supposed to be asleep, young man," she said softly.

Charlie giggled sleepily at the success of his ploy, and with his worries allayed, he fought against the Sandman to share his evening. "We had spaghetti, and Willy told stories about Loompaland."

"And I want to hear every one of them, dear, but in the morning." Spaghetti. Nora smiled to herself as she left the room.

Darn, thought Charlie, fast losing the battle with Sandman. I forgot to tell Mum I asked Willy about the stones. The thought had barely formed itself in his head before sleep overtook him. Charlie surrendered to it gladly, in the softest, warmest bed he had ever known.

* * *

><p>Shifting uncomfortably, Felix concluded this was hardest, coldest bench he'd ever had the misfortune to lie on. Having parked his car on a side street, Felix thought he'd hit pay dirt when as he turned onto the main drag in front of the Factory, he saw a cab pull away from the Factory gates. No such luck: though he ran to the gates, Felix saw no one in the courtyard. Without waiting, he turned away in disgust.<p>

Cursing his timing, Felix decided he must have been wrong about the cab: it must have just slowed, to look at the lights up close. Felix had seen nary a soul since then, and no one went near the Factory. Not surprising: this two-bit town rolled up its sidewalks after Ten PM, and it was way past that. This bench he had settled on just got harder and harder, and more and more uncomfortable. Sure, it was in the line of duty, though he doubted his rag of a newspaper would give him the credit he deserved for his efforts. Fat lot he cared: this was personal, too.

His father had made a good living, beloved by every child in town and their penny-pinching parents until Wonka started back up in business again: Wonka starting up had closed his father down. Felix was fifteen when that happened; he was twenty-something now, but he hadn't forgotten. How could he? His father had never been the same: all the spirit leaked out of him, slowly, like the air leaking out of an old tire. 'It's too late to start over,' his father told his little family. 'I'll do something else.'

True to his word, his father found a job selling used cars, and despite not being his own boss anymore, the family wasn't hurt financially.

The years passed, and to Felix the Chocolate Factory lurked like a vulture, looming over the town, biding its sweet time before it bit off another chunk of their lives. Felix didn't need telling his father felt the same way: his father never looked at the Factory without turning away, his shoulders slumping with the weight of the lost opportunity it represented. Felix never looked at it without hatred, its dark presence a gargantuan reminder of the defeat its cowardly, hidden owner had brought to his father.

Felix grunted in discomfort as the bench he was lying on took the side of the cowardly, hidden owner: the dig of one of the wooden slats into his hip and thigh suddenly become unbearable. Silently cursing as he heaved his body to a more comfortable position, Felix chalked up his impression to an over-active imagination, fueled by the nearness of the hulking monstrosity itself: the Factory was across the street, shamelessly alight, as if it had never ruined anyone's life.

Pulling down his woolen cap, Felix closed his eyes against the glare and clutched his coat more tightly around him. He should have brought a blanket. The layers he'd put on before coming here were doing their job, but it was still cold. The scarf around his neck scratched at his neck and face, but Felix didn't mind: this was his chance. For over a decade, Willy Wonka had shut himself up in that fortress of his, like a lily-livered box turtle shut up in his shell, but now, the gutless Chocolatier was getting careless. Since the tour, there'd been sightings of the man, and Wonka was moving that ridiculous little house at the bottom of this very hill. Felix grunted in disgust. Wonka must have lost his marbles: a bulldozer was too good for that house!

Staking out the Factory was little enough to get to the bottom of it: digging up something Felix could use to ruin Wonka would be sweet, but a scoop for his paper on whatever was going on would be a sweet thing, too: with any luck, it would go viral. Felix Ficklegruber planned on ditching this pathetic backwater excuse of a town someday, and this might be his ticket to move up in the world.

* * *

><p>A sniff from the bed in the middle of the room stopped Nora's tip-toeing progress toward her own bedroom. She gave a sidelong look in the sound's direction to find her father's glittering eyes boring into hers, his chin set close to his chest at a disapproving angle. She did her best not to laugh; he was doing his best to look down his nose, while looking up at her, and he was pulling it off.<p>

"Finished your gallivanting about for the evening, have you Missy?" he hissed at her, but quietly.

"You were in good hands, Dad," Nora answered softly, almost laughing. She knew her father was only cross because he'd been worried about her. Checking the others, she saw Georgina and Josephine were asleep, but Grandpa Joe was up as well.

Her father sniffed again. "If you call your stand-in, Terence, good hands."

"I meant Willy, but Terence will do." Nora sat next to her father on the bed.

Her father folded his arms across the blanket. "If you ask me, I'm surprised the Candyman let you back in. You should have come home with Charlie."

Grandpa Joe waved a dismissive hand in George's direction. "No one asked you, George." His voice was low, barely a murmur, matching George and Nora's. "And no you shouldn't have come back with Charlie, Nora. We had a fine time."

Nora frowned; not that she doubted Charlie, but there was no denying the 'Candyman' rumor now, and it opened flood gates of curiosity in her. "Did Willy do the cooking?"

"He has a chef," offered Grandpa Joe.

"Of course he does," muttered Nora.

"And a passel of Loompa-Oompas," chimed in Grandpa George.

"Oompa-Loompas," corrected Nora. "Don't be rude, Dad. Did they serve the food?"

"No, Willy did," said Grandpa Joe, comfortable in his familiar role of relating the exploits of Willy Wonka. "The Oompa-Loompas brought in great platters of goodies, and twenty or so of them swarmed under the dining table and lifted it up and brought it over here. Then they left— all except Ahlia."

Nora eyed the dining table, still on the other side of the bed, where the Oompa-Loompas had put it. The set up was almost exactly the set up in their old house.

"Ahlia was our hostess." Grandpa George wasn't going to let Joe cut him out of the telling. "The Loompas all left and Willy served the food. Come to think of it, he was quite good at that."

"_Oompa_-Loompas. What did Willy talk about?" whispered Nora.

"Hornswogglers!" crowed Grandma Georgina.

All eyes turned to Georgina, and the talking abruptly stopped while the three processed the reality that Georgina was not asleep. Recovering from the surprise, George leaned toward her, taking her hand in his, giving it a warm little pat.

"That's right, dear, he did say that."

"He did?" Nora's eyebrows were climbing, as she got up and moved around the bed to give her mother a hug and a peck on the cheek.

"He did," affirmed Grandma Josephine.

All eyes turned in turn to Josephine.

"I guess we're all up," said Grandpa Joe, jokingly. "So much for quiet."

There were smiles all around as the newly awoken were welcomed into the circle, but also silent agreement they would keep their voices low.

"Willy sat next to _me_," beamed Grandma Georgina. She leaned forward and patted a spot on the bed near her ankles.

"And barely said a word," nodded Grandma Josephine, "until after dinner, that is."

"Terence and Ahlia took up the slack. You'd have barely noticed the not talking," threw in Grandpa George.

"I don't think he'd have stayed if you had come back with Charlie." It was Grandpa Joe's turn, but he sounded serious.

"_I_ noticed he barely ate a thing, and I agree with Joe." Josephine pursed her lips until they were a thin line that threatened to disappear into the wrinkles of her face. "I think Willy was waiting for you to get back. He had an eye on the door whenever he thought no one was looking at him."

Nora thought about relating her experience at the Factory's door with Willy when she did return, but that felt wrong. For no reason she could put her finger on, she wanted to keep that private for now: probably at this late hour, it was too much to explain. Silence fell as she thought it over, and the others paused to regroup as they waited for her deliberation to end. The verdict was a question on another subject. "What happened after dinner?"

That was the jackpot question: Grandpa Joe sat up in bed as if he had won the lottery. "Stories!" Joe's chuckle prevented him from continuing right away, but everyone was smiling and waiting for him in such a way that Nora felt sorry she hadn't been here to hear them.

"Ahlia asked Charlie what we did at home after dinner, and Charlie told her we tell stories…"

"About the Chocolate Factory," interrupted Grandpa George, feeling he was being left out.

Grandpa Joe scowled at George, and folding his arms across his chest, harumphed most officiously. "As I was saying— Ahlia asked what Charlie's favorite story was, and he told her he liked to hear about Prince Pondicherry." Grandpa Joe was grinning from ear to ear.

"That's when Willy started talking," nodded Grandma Josephine sagely. "He said: 'Ohhh… I love that story. Please tell it.'"

"You'd think it hadn't happened to _him,_" snapped Grandpa George, refusing to be cut out.

"Patty-cake, patty-cake," piped up Georgina.

Grandpa George clarified: "Ahlia was clapping her hands and insisting as well."

"I think the story was new to her," nodded Grandma Josephine.

Grandpa Joe looked over at his daughter-in-law, now sitting in the spot Willy occupied earlier in the evening. "Do you have any idea what it feels like to tell a Willy Wonka story to Willy Wonka?"

Nora thought it must feel pretty good, because Joe's smile was dreamy.

"It's nigh unto impossible, that's what," threw in Grandpa George, still snappish.

"Willy interrupts all the time," concurred Grandma Josephine.

Joe's smile only got dreamier. "That's what I mean— a Willy Wonka story with details filled in by Willy Wonka…"

"…But who really cares what the proper coefficient of chocolate viscosity is for making chocolate bricks?" Grandpa George scanned their faces. "I mean, I ask you!"

"Or the exact ratio of light to dark chocolate to make a certain shade," added Josephine, quick to pile on with a critique of her own, if shortcomings were the subject.

"Leave the man alone." It was Georgina, making sense, and everyone was silent.

This was probably the time to call an end to this pow-wow—it was only getting later—but Nora was caught up in what she was hearing. She waited till the group had caught its collective breath, and started in again. "Then what?"

Grandpa George started to speak, but Joe held up his hand, and the group, more somber for knowing what happened at the Factory after Willy returned from India, leaned back against their pillows to let him have the floor.

"He stopped interrupting as I got toward the end, and when I finished we figured Willy was somewhere else in his mind."

Grandpa George frowned. "Completely oblivious, is what I'd call it."

Grandpa Joe nodded his agreement. "Terence and Ahlia told us to be quiet, wait it out, so we were, until he like— came to, I guess you could say."

When she spoke, Josephine's voice was missing its usual edge of disapproval. "It took awhile."

"I don't know if Charlie or Ahlia noticed his coming around first," continued Grandpa Joe, "but Ahlia was quick to fill in the silence— I think before Willy realized there was one. She insisted _he _tell a story— as if she didn't want the Factory team bested by our team. Charlie backed her up immediately, and I think between the two of them, Willy felt reassured."

"Dark chocolate!"

"That's right, Georgina."

Nora looked perplexed, and Joe hastened to explain. "Willy never stopped looking into their faces as they coaxed him, and it was awhile before he said anything, but when he did it was to agree. The whole time he was picking at the dark chocolate shavings on top of the dessert he'd brought…"

"…There's one for you…"

"…Shush, Dad, not now," but Nora could see it was true. A four-sided glass, no bigger than a shot glass, filled with a creamy whiteness, with a red swirl in it, like a barber's pole, sat on the dining table. On top of the dessert were dark chocolate shavings. A tiny spoon sat beside it.

"…And eating them…"

"…About the only thing he _did_ eat…"

"Will you stop interrupting, please, Dad!"

"Yes, stop interrupting, you're as bad as Willy, George…"

Nora's exasperation spilled over. "Stop it, all of you, and that includes you Josephine! I'm sorry, but I want to hear this. Please go on, Joe."

"…And then he launched into the story about how he found Loompaland, and I can tell you, it's a good one. I got the feeling Ahlia had heard it before, but not from Willy, and she was hanging on every detail."

Josephine sat back, happy to once again have a reason to put on her most sour face. "Loompaland is awful! Simply awful— there's no other way to describe it, believe you me."

"Snozzwhangers!" sang out Georgina.

Grandpa Joe nodded. "Lots of fierce jungle beasts, with Oompa-Loompas the preferred main course…"

"Every course," snorted Grandpa George.

"Whangdoodles!"

George patted his wife's hand again. "We can hear you, dear, we're right here." Georgina's zeal was expressing itself in increasing decibels, and George was doing his best to avoid complaints from the neighbors, even if the neighbors were only Noah and Charlie.

Seeing his chance, Joe finished his thought: "…The Oompa-Loompas are a lot better off living here."

The Grandparents exchanged knowing glances with each other, as Nora stared off into space, contemplating the implications of the comment. It went without saying the Bucket family was better off, too, but they smiled at each other anyway, expecting Nora to say it. Returning from her wanderings, and looking into their waiting faces, Nora disappointed the oldsters by not saying out loud what they all thought she was thinking. Instead, Nora kept what she was thinking to herself. Willy had rescued the Oompa-Loompas.

Georgina didn't let the sudden, unexpected silence dampen her spirits. While the others wondered what to say to fill it, smiling saucily, Georgina patted George's hand as she turned and sang in his ear, ever so softly, "Hornswogglers!"

Nora let her thoughts go, and hopped off the bed. "I think that's where I came in, my dears, and now that we've come full circle, I better make my exit, and let all of you get back to sleep."

* * *

><p><em>I never tire of your reviews, so <em>_**dionne dance,** **07kattho, **and **Celeste K. Raven, **__I hope you never tire of accepting my warmest thanks for taking the time to submit your thoughts. __I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.__ Everyone, thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think._


	11. The Wee Hour

Sleep was as impossible as he knew it would be, but as soon as the acrid odor of the tea he'd made hit his nostrils, Dr. Wonka knew he'd made a mistake. Instead of being a calming libation, it proved the trigger that ended the suspense as to whether or not the reheated dinner would stay down: it wouldn't.

Fleeing from his humiliating, painful prostrations at the porcelain altar, Dr. Wonka splashed his face and rinsed his mouth with cool water from the kitchen sink, dabbing his face dry with the thirsty dish cloth. Feeling better, he held his breath, retrieved the offending mug of tea from the table, and dumped the contents down the drain. Good riddance. His arms locked at the elbows, his hands spread wide holding the forward corners of the sink, Dr. Wonka leaned over it weakly, watching the tea swirl away.

* * *

><p>Passing the dining table on her way to her bedroom, Nora snagged the ruby-swirled, creamy dessert and spoon left for her, even as the grandparents snuggled down in their bed. Georgina was already snoring away happily.<p>

* * *

><p>Happily, the last of the tea drained away. Dr. Wonka stared into the abyss of the now empty sink, the dark drain the center of its black heart. The Boy would have known better than to make tea. He'd have done something with milk, or broth, or something else that would never occur to Dr. Wonka. Wil— Dr. Wonka bit his mental tongue, er, The Boy …was good with food that way— in a way Dr. Wonka never was, never would be, and never wanted to be.<p>

Dr. Wonka, in those halcyon, begone days, was a busy man: he didn't have time for foolish falderal like food. Food was what rotted your teeth. Breakfast cereal was all you needed: fortified with vitamins and minerals, it was easy to serve, kept forever, and contained fiber. A person could live on it, and after Mina left the picture, breakfast cereal was Dr. Wonka's go to solution for feeding a four and a-half, almost five-year old, simply and quickly—no muss, no fuss—breakfast cereal: morning, noon, and most nights.

The Boy, as he grew older, had other ideas, and began to experiment with the tinned and frozen selections Dr. Wonka sometimes shared—if Dr. Wonka was in a good mood after his day—at dinnertime. Older still, The Boy branched out into fresh ingredients, with the results so tasty Dr. Wonka willing filled the grocery lists The Boy silently handed him at the beginning of each week. The scowl Dr. Wonka unfailingly put on his face as the list exchanged hands didn't fool either of them.

The corners of Dr. Wonka's mouth turned up in a rusty, miserly smile. Those were good times: he'd seen a way to bolster his fame, and instituted dinner parties. Dr. Wonka never actually said, but encouraged his guests to believe, that he, Dr. Wilbur Wonka, deserved the credit for teaching The Boy everything he knew about the meals he prepared. His deception was a huge success: Dr. Wonka heard nothing but compliments on the exemplary way his was raising his fine son, and he enjoyed to the fullest basking in the high praise his guests showered upon him in their appreciation.

The sigh that left his body as he thought over his present plight betrayed him, and having uttered it, Dr. Wonka pushed himself slowly upright from the sink. Tasty food did more than keep you alive: it gave you a connection to others. It was times like this that he missed Willy.

* * *

><p>"Did you miss me, dear?" Nora finally had some success with her sneaking, and sneaking into her nightie, she intentionally jostled Noah awake as she slid into their bed.<p>

With a sleepy grunt, Noah rolled over and opened his eyes, only to close them again. "Sure, dear," he managed to mumble.

Knowing Noah liked his sleep, Nora laughed. "Look what Willy gave me," she said in a rush, holding up the gold doily, unperturbed by her husband's lack of enthusiasm.

"I can't see in the dark, dear."

"It's not that dark. Open your eyes."

Noah opened his eyes and looked at the shiny doily. "That's nice, dear."

"Don't roll over, dear."

Nora's tone stopped Noah in mid-roll, but quickly chattering on, Nora put the Square Candy on top of the doily on the night table, next to the dessert she hadn't eaten. "I saw the lot where Willy's house used to be. You wouldn't believe it."

"If you say so, dear."

Nora barely heard him. "Charlie found a design of flat stones in the garden at the back. There's no obvious sense to it, but I think it means something."

Nora had said something intriguing, and Noah made more of an effort to respond. His increased wakefulness allowed him to realize just how happy he was, now that his wife _was_ back. Propping himself up on his elbow, he started again, reaching out to stroke her cheek fondly with the back of his fingers. "I _am_ glad you're home safe, dear."

Nora smiled, and catching his hand, kissed the heel of his palm. She understood. "Me, too. Do you know something about those stones?" Noah's interest meant he might.

"Charlie asked Willy about those stones the second Willy walked through the door with the dinner."

Nora could taste her anticipation in learning the secret. "What did Willy say?"

Lying on his side, Noah rested his head in his hand, his face the picture of philosophical contemplation. "He said sound waves need air to travel through, and the air in this room, so high up in the Factory, was very thin indeed— too thin to carry sound waves, with the sad result he couldn't hear a word Charlie was saying."

Nora sagged with disappointment. All of that was nonsense; they weren't very high up in the Factory at all, and there was plenty of air. She caught Noah's eye, and they looked at each other thoughtfully.

"That's actually a pretty good dodge," Nora finally conceded.

"Charlie laughed about it."

"Do you think Willy would mind if I use it?"

Noah rolled onto his back and crossed his hands over his chest, looking up at the ceiling. "It can backfire on you, dear. It backfired on Willy. He hadn't closed his mouth before your dear father gave a snort and said: 'Hey, Candyman, can ya hear this? 'Cause if ya can, have ya got anymore of those dragonfly nymph thingies? And if ya can't, ya won't mind me calling you 'Candyman'."

Nora laughed, but quickly put her hand over her mouth. "Dad! He didn't!"

"He did."

Her father's audacity often astounded her, and it astounded Nora now, but another one of those candies would be thrilling. The one dragonfly nymph candy her parents had eaten, half each, acted like a magic tonic on them: George felt spry and energetic, with her mother's mind restored to a semblance of coherency. "Could he?" Nora breathed, her eyebrows threatening to climb off her forehead with hope.

"Nope," sighed Noah. "He didn't bat an eye, didn't turn a hair, didn't hear him. Your father may as well have been out of the room. Willy held up his finger when Charlie looked like he'd ask about the stones again— to change the subject, I think— said louder wouldn't help, it was a wave issue, and waved the fingers of both his hands to demonstrate."

"Huh," said Nora, her hands in her lap.

"Huh, is right," said Noah.

They sat in silence, eyes locked again in thoughtfulness. Knowing how stubborn her father could be, Nora swallowed, almost afraid to ask. "Did Dad give up?"

"No, dear."

Nora bit her lower lip. No wonder Charlie worried.

"Your Dad kept it up until he got tired of being ignored. Willy doesn't give up either. Willy was about done serving the food by then, and Charlie was getting frantic. I think that's why your father stopped."

"As long as he did."

"He did," affirmed Noah. "All's well that ends well."

Noah had rolled over again, done with the story and ready to return to sleep. Nora gave him a gentle shake. "How _did_ it end?"

"A win for Willy, of course. I said he doesn't give up." Noah burrowed into his pillow, his voice muffled. He'd seen a glimpse of the steely resolve beneath Willy's eccentric foolishness tonight, and noted that Terence wasn't surprised by it. The little smile and look Willy had given George when George finally used Willy's proper name had been the look and smile of a calculating cat, with a furry little mouse in its sights, ripe for play.

George, on the receiving end, was no fool: he'd been on his best behavior for the rest of the evening, but Noah could see being bested irked his father-in-law, and Noah wondered if they _had_ seen the end of it.

* * *

><p>After leaving Nora, Willy returned to the otherwise deserted Inventing Room to put the finishing touches on the project he'd been working on in the interval between the dinner ending and Nora returning. It was a small thing, but after what he'd listened to at dinner, Willy wanted it done by morning.<p>

Eshle had kept an eye out for him, promising to sound the alert when Nora returned, and he had. Willy thought afterward Eshle had toddled off to bed: but no way, here he was again, silently awaiting notice in the semi-dark, cavernous room. Willy noticed, and half turning from the table, he raised a questioning brow, the small shaping utensil he was using poised in his hand.

"Kelii thinks we may have something on the radar."

Willy stood silently for a moment letting the statement sink in, the implement in his hand still poised. Though happening sooner than he expected, the development didn't surprise him. It was probably too much to ask that the town leave him be if he was out and about in it. Silent a moment more, Willy was aware Eshle was trying to gauge his reaction. No fair leaving him wondering: with a weak smile Willy put the utensil down, placing an enameled cover protectively over the tiny project. This was one occasion where being right didn't make him happy. Exchanging his lab coat for his frock coat, Willy beckoned to Eshle as he donned his top hat. "Come on, then. Let's see what we've got."

* * *

><p>What we've got, thought Terence, feeling grouchy and tethered, prowling the area around the Bucket house one last time—still sure there was something amiss, and still not finding it—is a house moving project that needs to get finished yesterday.<p>

* * *

><p>"What we've got is this," indicated Kelii, motioning to the screen before him.<p>

Willy peered over his acting head of security's shoulder. The Oompa-Loompa assigned to the night shift sat beside him, one of the best, but with this odd development, he had called his boss.

The room the four occupied was long and narrow, with no windows, but filled with screens monitoring the perimeter of the Factory, and other key points. Originally designed as a cloak room for large groups, it had been easy to re-purpose as a security center. Located one floor up, over the Factory's main entrance, from here, the person manning the facility might easily greet the rare visitor, without disturbing the work of the rest of the Factory, which also made it convenient. Spiral staircases on either side of entrance hall gave access from the vestibules.

Kelii, sitting at the control center, a panel of monitors arrayed around him, pointed to the center screen, its displayed picture selectable using buttons on the panel at his fingertips. Willy had a simplified setup—fewer monitors—that mirrored this in his office, except if needed, the controls in his office overrode these.

Having evaluated the image, Willy straightened up. "Why show me? Call one of the shelters." The blob he saw lying on the bench across from the Factory looked homeless to him. At least the offender wasn't using the bench favored by Terence and Charlie earlier in the month.

Willy had a strong aversion to seeing people with no home to go to that made it his policy to anonymously call, and anonymously fund—very generously—a variety of shelters, half-way houses and care facilities in this particular town, thus making it easy for those who wanted help to find it without involving the area around the Chocolate Factory. Those who _didn't_ want help avoided the Chocolate Factory environs assiduously, its reputation notorious that an annoying do-gooder would descend upon them to disturb their peace just as they were getting comfortable. Willy, unaware of his Factory's reputation among the—scarce through they may be—independently minded indigent, wouldn't have cared if he _had_ known. Helped or not, Willy only cared his policy nicely achieved his goal of no visible reminders, and it did.

"He does look homeless," agreed Kelii, "but with his car parked on that side-street, I'm thinking he's a fake." Kelii pushed a button, and an image of the offending car popped up on an adjacent screen.

"'Kay, then," said Willy, eyes going wide, then narrowing. "That's different. Run the plate."

Kelii manœuvred his mouse, and the image magnified. "Can't. The license is covered with road salt and mud, and we can't read the number."

Willy could see that was true. "Darn." Thinking for a moment, he smugly sashayed down the line of equipment and picked up a phone, holding the handset like an extension of his finger. "I can fix that!"

"Who are you calling?" Kelii asked, as he and Eshle exchanged glances. Willy usually avoided the phone the way Oompa-Loompas avoided Whangdoodles.

"Terence, of course," Willy chirped brightly. "I told him not to go back to his flat tonight." He turned back to the phone and punched in the number, chanting not so softly under his breath, "Nyah, nyah, na, nyah, nyah, _now_ I get to wake him up."

"You won't, though," predicted Kelii, nothing wrong with his hearing.

The phone was ringing and ringing, and as predicted, went unanswered. Willy held the device away from his ear. "Because…"

Kelii exchanged another glance with Eshle, who shrugged his shoulders. "He's not there."

"Because…" drawled Willy.

"Because he's at the Bucket house."

Miffed, Willy replaced the handset in its cradle. "Why, pray tell, is he there, and what, pray tell, is he doing?"

Three sets of Oompa-loompa eyes met his. "We don't know," said Eshle. "He's your tribe. We thought you sent him there."

Dismayed, Willy sank onto the edge of the shelf that held the equipment. "Not me." The Bucket house was unreachable by modern methods. Ancient methods, like walking, got that job done, but there was no need to walk down there, this was about the blob's car. There was no need to go farther than it, and Willy sickeningly suspected he'd been selected to check it out.

There was silence whilst everyone else in the room gave Willy the chance to come to grips with the prospect. With Terence unreachable, Willy was exactly right.

Willy stirred, looking back at the three with narrowed eyes, his mouth curled into a sly, suspicious smile. "How do we know Terence is at the Bucket house? _I_ don't have any cameras anywhere near the Bucket house."

Eshle poked the floor with his foot, and Kelii and his associate kept their eyes glued on Eshle.

Willy could guess, and it tickled him. "Come on, you guys— give."

Eshle obliged. "Kelii hacked into the town's CCTVs. They've got cameras down there."

"Are they on to us?" Willy's eyes were wide, his question earnest.

"I going with 'no'," responded Kelii. "I'm using a spoofed IP and pinging the signal all over the globe. It would be hard for them to pin down where it originally comes from, but the key is being in and out of their system before they even know we're there."

Willy rubbed his hands together. "Then wonderful— aren't you clever! Extended range— with no added cost! Isn't that delightful!" His smirk was infectious. "As one of the citizens who helped pay for those things, I'm sure the town doesn't mind our making the most of our investment." Cheered, Willy got back to his feet. "Especially if they don't know we're using it. I can't imagine we'll need it often."

"And the car?"

"The car." Willy grinned at Eshle. Who knows when they had drawn straws, or when he, Willy, had drawn the short one, but he obviously had, and anyway, it didn't matter. He'd been the one muddying the waters: bringing the outside inside his dear Factory, and it was only right he'd be the one to investigate what he'd stirred up. It might even be fun—nah, it wouldn't be fun, but whatever—he'd make the best of it. "Eshle. I'll need my great-coat, a hat I don't wear, a heavy scarf, and," Willy held up his Nerd filled walking stick, "a walking stick not this one."

"We have everything ready next to the door," said Eshle, gesturing, "including a choice of hats."

* * *

><p><em>Oompa-Loompas should have jungle-y sounding names, so, based on the 2005 movie as this is, for the acting head of security I went with 'Kelii', a variation of 'Keli', which is a variation of 'Jerry'. <strong>dionne<strong> **dance: **Thanks so much for your review! If quirks of fate interest you, you might be interested in_ 'Til There Was You._ Quirks of fate abound in that movie._

_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.__ Everyone, thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think._


	12. Some Dark

Kelii peered intently at the screen in front of him, while Eshle did his very best to look unconcerned.

"This is giving me the creeps," Kelii muttered.

"You're just not used to it," Eshle tried to reassure him, but his words were half-hearted, and his pursed lips belied his bravado.

Kelii didn't buy it for a minute. "Neither are you."

It was true. Eshle stepped away from the screen, clasping his hands behind his back. It wouldn't do to start wringing them now, not in front of Kelii. This adventure wasn't unfolding as he had planned in any way, starting with the duds. The hat choices had been up to snuff—Willy lost no time opting for a low profile British newsboy style in lieu of his top hat—but when Willy saw his great-coat, a given for pete's sake, he changed his mind about using it.

"Deary, dear, whatever was I thinking?" Willy had mildly complained, holding it aloft. "This will never do for doing this."

Eshle couldn't see why not, but Willy, reading his thoughts, fastened brightly laughing eyes upon him. "Too posh, my dear man, too posh. You must see that! But," he held up his index finger, "I have just the thing. Wait here."

They had waited, and taking more time than they'd thought it would, Willy had eventually returned, resplendent in a moth-eaten, shawl-collared, patchy-furred Buffalo great-coat whose ratty, uneven hem brushed the floor, and whose voluminous sleeves reached down to cover more than half the length of Willy's fingers. Shiny black gloves barely managed to peek out.

Holding out his arms, Willy twirled for his aghast Oompa-Loompas' inspection, finding their horrified faces an unmitigated delight. "Don't I look derelict?" he asked, over the laughter he couldn't stem.

Eshle, barely recovered from the sight blurted out, "You do," nearly unintelligibly.

"Betcha didn't think I could," smirked Willy, lowering his arms.

"Betcha you're right."

Willy grinned at Eshle's reflexively blazing response. Pleased, he lightly stroked the sleeve of his wretched-looking coat, and offered an explanation. "I got it looking like this. The coat, not me. It's an ancient souvenir from one of the colleges I didn't attend."

Remembering, Willy pretended to wave a pennant. "Rah, rah," he said flatly, and the light left his eyes. "Shall we get on with this?"

It was then that Eshle's heart sank. Willy had turned to Kelii and told him he'd be using one of the side entrances. Willy meant to do this on foot. The reason for this coat and not that coat was now plain. As plain as the awful coat. Dressing derelict was necessary for blending in.

Eshle bravely swallowed the objections he knew Willy wouldn't hear, and sent Kelii's colleague off to bed as soon as Willy left the room. Eshle didn't want it getting around that this development worried him, but he knew he wouldn't be able to disguise it once Willy was out of sight. There was a good reason Oompa-Loompas kept to their tree houses in Loompaland: the jungle floor was not a safe place. Now, watching Willy make his way along the sidewalk beside the Factory and then to the street with the suspicious car, the comparison between the two jungles loomed in the minds of both remaining Oompa-Loompas. The outside of the Factory was not a safe place for any of them, but the person they could least afford to lose was risking his safety before their eyes.

"I thought he would use the Great Glass Elevator," Eshle finally admitted, "or I wouldn't have asked him to do this."

"I'd have thought so, too," said Kelii tightly, losing no time in switching to another camera to keep Willy in sight. Kelii hunched his shoulders, adjusting the picture that needed no adjustment. "Too noisy at this hour?"

With an unfettered snort, Eshle scoffed whole-heartedly at the supposition. "Noisy? He'd love that. He'd swoop down on the bench with the Elevator, scare the bejesus out of the guy, swoop over to the car, read the plate, and be back in the Factory before the guy, having fallen from the bench in shock, untangled himself from the ground."

Kelii smiled as he imagined the scene Eshle's words painted. After a minute, so did Eshle. A minute after that, they were both laughing—just a little—until it hit them nothing had really changed. Willy was still on foot. Somber's chilly fingers clutched at them anew.

"At least he left the Factory lights on," Kelii remarked to lighten mood. Somber didn't sit well with Oompa-Loompas.

Eshle didn't mind playing along. Silly conversation was like whistling past the graveyard: a distraction. "The better to see the car by. A flashlight would attract attention to what he was doing."

They fell silent. Willy had reached the car. The tip of the proper wooden cane he carried, curved handle and all, reached out and scraped itself against the license plate, followed by a few smart taps. They watched as Willy returned the cane to his side, some of the crud falling to the ground. Willy stood motionless.

"He must have it by now," said Kelii, fretting.

"He must," agreed Eshle.

They let out a collective sigh when Willy finally turned and began to retrace his steps.

"Do you think he'll go to sleep when he gets back?" Kelii could see the happy end to this ordeal, but it wasn't over yet, and talking still made him feel better.

Eshle frowned, considering. "I doubt it. He's on a roll tonight. You know how he likes to prowl around when he gets like that. Five'll get you ten he heads back to the Inventing Room."

Kelii was about to laugh—it was a bet he wouldn't take—but unexpected movement on the screen caught his eye. "What the…? Check this out— Willy's heading for the main gate."

Eshle turned. It was true, and though Eshle knew full well side entrances weren't Willy's style, the change of course was as unexpected to Eshle as Willy's decision to handle the task on foot. Eshle's fingers curled ever so slightly as trepidation he couldn't deny seeped into him. It felt more and more to him as if a lesson he knew by heart needed re-learning. With the introduction of these Buckets, Willy was changing, but maybe he was only staying the same. The Oompa-Loompas had only known Willy since he had decided to have nothing to do with the town: they had no way of knowing what he was like before that. Maybe he was like this: calculatingly intrepid. It stood to reason after all: when he found them, Willy was braving a nearly impenetrable jungle alone.

"Let's pay attention then," snapped Eshle, swimming out of his reverie, fixing his eyes on the screen. "If Willy has something else in mind, it probably involves us."

* * *

><p>Willy watched the sludge fall off the license plate and hit the ground. This wasn't the way Terence would handle this.<p>

The tip of his cane made a crisp noise on the pavement as he brought it back to his side. This car was a wreck. Dented and rusted, grime covered the metal in thick layers so permanent looking, tree rings came to mind. The dents and rust were one thing—well two things, the car was old—but the grime was a crime. It screamed neglect. What shape was the engine in? The other components? Willy stood appalled. No machine anyone depended on deserved treatment like this.

Memorizing the numbers and letters instantly, Willy stood mourning the vehicle's condition a few moments longer. Not wanting to imagine the slothful disregard its uncaring owner was capable of, he found he didn't have to. The victim parked before him left nothing to the imagination, and that was offensive. The Blob deserves a visit to a room in my Factory for this, but which one? Possibilities began to line themselves up in his brain, clamoring for consideration.

This isn't the way Terence would handle this. Willy stirred where he stood, and turned to make his way back to his sanctuary. Terence would confront the fellow. I wouldn't, but he would. Then we'd know what was up. Right now.

Willy reached the street that ran along the front of his factory, and turning, he looked down along its length. The Blob is lying on that bench. Terence would confront the blob. Terence is at the Bucket house. What if Terence were up here? Where he belonged. What then?

Standing on the corner, Willy hatched a plan; two plans really, A and B. Plan A was to see for himself, but that was daring in a way he cared not to be—so he doubted much would come of it—but he had a lot of faith in Plan B.

Willy set Plan A in motion, laughing to himself, because it was _slow_ motion. Having tossed his cane speculatively from hand to hand, he settled on his right, and then he continued down the street toward his main gates, but on the side with the benches. Leaning heavily on his cane, the pitiful limp of his right leg excruciating to watch, the progress Willy was making rivaled glacial, but the corners of his mouth turned up beneath the layers of his scarf anyway: the real beauty of Plan A, was that it put him in a position to begin Plan B, without appearing a threat.

The slow tap of the oncoming cane and labored breathing of the person wielding it caught Felix's attention. Twisting on his unforgivingly uncomfortable bench, Felix sat up to check out the approaching figure. His budding hopes fell before they rose. It was only some decrepit, hunched-over old geezer, wearing a full length fur coat that looked as if the animal donating it had died of mange. Felix couldn't tell much else about the guy—a hat covered his hair, the folds of a heavy black scarf buried his face and neck—but one thing Felix could tell was that the sorry excuse of a ne'er-do-well was heading straight for _his_ bench.

"Piss off, shithead," snarled Felix, as soon as the interloper got close enough to hear him. "This bench is mine."

The immediacy of the intruder's halt was a pleasing surprise. Felix had wondered if defending his territory might take more, but, no, he'd got it done barely raising his voice. That was something, but if that was gonna be it, it was gonna be a pretty disappointing night. His pleasure evaporated.

The interloper stood his ground, placing his cane like a barrier before him, but said nothing.

Felix couldn't make out the man's eyes, what with the distance between them, and shadowed as they were by the hat he wore, but Felix knew those eyes were boring into him: the thought was making his skin feel all prickly, as if a thousand tiny needles were raking themselves across his flesh. Not liking the scrutiny, and feeling spooked, Felix wanted rid of this nuisance. "Hey, gimpy! Why don't cha try the Chocolate Factory?" he called out. "They're sure t' let you in. Wonka's a fiend for company!"

The interloper took a tiny step back.

Satisfied, Felix broke into great guffaws of laughter as he settled back down on the bench. The token retreat made him feel safe dismissing this creepy dude from his attention, but he added a comment as he turned away. Felix knew more than this jerk did, and he wanted the jerk to know it. "That screwball's moving a house."

Felix missed the tilt of the man's head, that could only be contempt, followed by the shrug of the man's shoulders, that could only denote indifference.

In a moment, the slow tapping and labored breathing that had first tipped Felix off resumed.

Felix waited for the sounds to fade, but they didn't. They crossed the street. Felix rose back up on his elbow. The geezer was really heading for the Chocolate Factory's main gates. What an idiot! "Hey, I didn't mean it," Felix started to say, but the words died before he got past 'didn't'. The old geezer was clearly off his meds, cuz now he was standing in front of the center gate, flippin' his hands around his head like he was bein' attacked by wasps in the middle of the freakin' winter!

The hand flipping abruptly stopped and not a minute later, the lights on the gate complex blinked out. Three seconds after that, they blinked back on. Felix was confused. The geezer's hand flippin' started all over again, longer this time, and then stopped again. Holding his breath, Felix waited for the lights on the gates to go out again.

They didn't. They stayed on. The gates didn't open, either.

Felix let out his breath, feeling as disappointed as the nutter must feel. For a minute there, it almost looked like the strange ol' geezer was gettin' somewhere. After another minute, Felix saw the witless old fool give it up. The dejected slump of his mange-clad body said it all. Felix almost felt sorry for the dude. Where're the meds when ya need 'em, eh?

Keeping his derisive comments to himself, Felix watched the silly, lame geezer, with bowed head and hunched shoulders, move haltingly back down the sidewalk the way he had come. Yeah, it was sad. But it was easier to feel angry than sad, and with a sneer, Felix lay back down. He had problems of his own, and he couldn't bother to trouble himself about the woes of that dude. Shifting with frustration that nothing else had happened, Felix resigned himself to a future of more cold and boredom.

Three minutes after that, something else happened. Every Chocolate Factory light illuminating the exterior went out, like dominoes falling in an ever accelerating cascade. Wonka's Chocolate Factory, and the town around it, plunged back into the inky darkness that had been the norm for over a decade.

* * *

><p><em>Yes, dear readers, Willy's faith in Plan B is a double entendre. 'Plan B' is the name of one of the production companies that made <em>Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. _**dionne dance**: You are so right. It's been a full day, with more to come._

_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.__ Thanks for reading, and do let me know what you think._


	13. Shadows

_A/N: As scarce as my updates have been, I should tell you that since May, the lights I've seen at the end of the tunnel have all been trains. The last one was an Express, and it hit me hard, and fast— flattened me really. Reading and reviewing—among other things—has helped get me back on my feet. And now, still unsteady, here we go… when we left off, Willy had turned out the lights..._

* * *

><p>Willy's face faded into darkness, taking Dr. Wonka by surprise. Having retreated from the kitchen to his surgery, he sat up in his patients' chair and looked again, his breath catching in his throat. Where the face should hang there were only shadows. The indistinct, out of focus visage the photographer's camera had no business trying to capture in the first place was gone from sight. Scarcely believing it, Dr. Wonka's eyes flicked to the window. The glow was gone. The lights of the factory were out, and dawn was still hours and hours away. That could only mean something bad had happened up there, and that could only be good. Rubbing cold, worn hands together, Dr. Wonka rose from his creaky leather chair, cackling with glee.<p>

* * *

><p>The exterior lights went out and Nora giggled. She hadn't quite finished the delicious dessert, but she didn't need the disappeared indirect light to dig the last spoonful of it out of the bottom of the shot glass.<p>

She'd wanted to go on talking, telling Noah about her meeting with Willy, but Nora could tell by his monotone, barely more than monosyllabic replies that she was being "yes, dear-ed", and she let it go. Noah wanted to get back to sleep, and she let him. It wasn't his fault she was so keyed up, and the story could wait till morning. The last coherent thing Noah suggested before rolling over and burying his face in his pillow was that she try the dessert.

Nora tapped the tiny spoon on the rim of the shot-glass and the little eyes on the Square Candy turned to the noise. "You think so, too, do you?" purred Nora as she picked up the glass. "Well then, I guess I just will."

Two wide, thin curls of glistening shaved chocolate sat on top of the delicacy, against all odds looking fat and juicy. Nora had never seen chocolate so dark: those curls might just as well be polished onyx. Remembering being told Willy had eaten only those, Nora started with them. The taste was not what she expected. It was bitter. As bitter as a taste could get, and still be something you'd want to eat. It was like a dare, this almost pure chocolate, and it brought to mind something people forgot: by itself, chocolate is bitter. Nora wondered, if she continued, what awaited.

Plucking up her courage, Nora dipped her spoon into the creamy whiteness, leaving the ruby swirl for later. When its cool, crisp taste touched her tongue, memories of her own sweet childhood flooded her brain, the earlier bitterness shoved smoothly back, like a wave spread too thin upon the shore, spent, and retreating into itself. Nora flashed back—far back—back to a time when a happy little girl didn't know troubles existed, and snow wasn't anything except a beautifully magical delight; a time when every snowflake seemed as big as a pancake, the tracery of its crystal design an easily seen masterpiece, exquisitely beautiful. The taste took her back to the times she would rush outside and lift her head to catch those flawless flakes on her tongue—too special to touch with anything else, they were—their secret magic becoming hers the moment they dissolved in her mouth. This cream was those snowflakes, transformed and made sweet. With eyes closed, Nora smiled. The curls of chocolate were counterpoint, making the luscious sweetness sweeter still: very clever of our clever Chocolatier.

Opening her eyes, Nora dipped her spoon into the swirl. The swirl was warmth: sweet and tart and tangy and hot: it was the fire you returned to when the magic of the snow was too much to bare anymore: it was the sunlight you stepped back into on a temperate Summer's day, after standing too long in shadows.

With its warmth suffusing every part of her, in tingling waves Nora's tensions melted away, radiating outward like sunlight rippling across sparkling water, itself rippling, breaking upon the shore. Her last desire to find fault with the maker of this confection, on the ebb already, rippled away with them. Letting the spoon droop in her fingers, she closed her eyes for the second time. The feeling was heavenly, and Nora moved into it unreservedly.

No wonder there's so little of this she thought, when she could think again. Very much more, and you might never return from this nirvana.

Steadying herself for the full effect, Nora took proper hold of the spoon and sampled both tastes together—the crisp cool of the cream, the tangy, subtle heat of the swirl—the warmth and flavors blending magically. She let the spoon droop again, fully savoring the sensations of pleasure before they faded. Scenes of Noah and herself in carefree days of courtship conjured themselves in her mind's eye, a swirling slide show of happy memories. If ever a lover's look of fondness could be given a taste, this would be it.

It was then, with that thought drifting around her head, the lights blinked out and Nora giggled. Hastening to finish the last of the treat, she was ready to give herself over to the sleep the darkness made irresistible. Willy had turned the Factory lights on for her. Now that she was back, he had turned them off. Putting the empty glass aside, Nora nestled down into her pillow, fluffing the covers over her. The sleep that beckoned her would be deep, she knew, and dreamless, and while she welcomed it, there was one last thing to tell Noah before it faded from her mind, and was forgotten.

"It's all alright, Noah dear." Nora's voice was a thin whisper, the sleep overtaking her garbling her words, making her tongue feel heavy. "Willy… couldn't've... saved us before. He was busy... saving himself…" Her own peaceful yawn interrupted her. "…And the Oompa-Loompas."

Noah, on the edge of consciousness, heard, and opening his eyes, held his breath to hear more.

"But now he has."

Noah moved closer, but that was all Nora had to say. A gentle sigh escaped her lips as she unconsciously curled her arm across her chest, her expression one of dreamy satisfaction. Smiling tenderly, Noah kissed his sleeping wife's cheek. "Don't be silly, Nora dear," he murmured softly into her gentle breathing. "Charlie saved us."

* * *

><p>Charlie woke when the lights went out, and he wondered what it could mean. He'd jumped up excitedly earlier in the evening when they flooded on, running over to the bed and grabbing his Grandpa Joe's hands, pleading with him to go out and look.<p>

"You can see from the window, Charlie," his father intervened mildly. "It's late, and you have school tomorrow. Don't pester your Grandpa Joe."

Joe was already out of bed, standing in his nightshirt, chomping at the bit like an excited racehorse. "Grab your coat, Charlie! Grab mine! I want to see 'em, too!"

They'd fled the room on a rising crescendo of tittering and muttering from the others, ending with: "How will they know where to go?"

Charlie smiled in the darkness. Nearly out the door, he'd heard his father's answer, and he played it back in his mind, re-living the thrill of the vote of confidence. "Charlie will manage." And he had. His smile widened. It was easy: the Great Glass Elevator knew where to go, and he, Charlie, knew which button to push. Puffed with pride, when the Elevator arrived he'd frowned, though, and rather than step into it, he'd caught his Grandpa's sleeve. "We'd better not." It was his Grandma Georgina's sing-song contribution to the clamor catching up with him that changed his mind: "I love crowds!"

Willy hated crowds, but he had turned on the lights. Leading his Grandpa Joe back to their rooms, hand in hand, Charlie stood with him at the window. Grandma Georgina had nailed it. There were crowds all right: pointing and staring. The Factory must look more beautiful than ever. Charlie watched the ensuing commotion in silence for almost five minutes. "You never told me the Factory could light up like this," he finally whispered to his Grandpa Joe, wishing he could see it for himself.

His Grandpa Joe had waited, and sighed, and then softly squeezed Charlie's hand. "It's been years. I forgot it could."

His grandfather forgot. How could you forget something as awesome as that?

Unsettled by all this, from long habit Charlie rolled over to look through the hole in his roof at the reassuring sight of the Chocolate Factory. The Factory had watched over him all his life, and though Charlie never told anyone he thought that, whenever he was unsure, or scared, or worried, he looked at the Factory on the top of the hill, and knew everything would turn out alright someday. How could it be otherwise, with something as gloriously marvelous as Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory sitting practically on his doorstep? It was all you ever needed to see to know you could make your dreams come true.

Looking, Charlie's eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness to see only ceiling, and he scrunched the covers around his chin with his fingers, laughing inwardly at himself. How could he forget he was _in_ the Chocolate Factory? Instantly forgiving his grandfather his omission, Charlie wondered if not being able to _see _the Factory, he could feel it. Lying quietly, he found he could. It felt like a sleeping friend, but the energy level seemed wrong— like a piece of it was missing.

Uncertainty tickled Charlie anew, fingers of anxiety picking at him though he tried to brush the feeling away. Were the lights turning off something to worry about? Tonight had gone so well. Willy had told stories like one of the family, and the dessert had been scrumptious: cool and crisp and bitter and sweet and underneath it all warm and comforting: eating it reminded Charlie of the way his family was with each other: teasing and happy, sometimes worried and angry, but always with love underneath.

Willy had made that, and shared it with them, and afterward, for the first time in Charlie's life, turned on the Factory lights.

It all made Charlie dare to hope Willy was on the brink of accepting Charlie's little family, but now the lights were off, and Charlie was back to feeling the way he had since they'd moved into the Factory: like a fish, in a plastic bag, floating on the top of the water in a tank that was supposedly their new home. Charlie'd seen that at school when his teacher had put some new fish into the classroom tank. His teacher had gone on about the water temperature needing to adjust before he let them loose, for their own good, but Charlie just watched the fish. Staring out at their lovely new home, they bumped themselves against a barrier they couldn't see, but was there nonetheless. Did it make the new fish feel as shaky as Charlie felt? In those minutes it took to finish adjusting, it would be as easy to take them out, as to let them swim.

* * *

><p>Felix didn't know whether to stay put or swing up off the bench and investigate. The lights were off and darkness ruled. He listened for the tapping of the old geezer while his eyes adjusted to the dark. The old dude couldn't have gotten far, but Felix heard nothing. The dude had vanished. Felix stayed as he was. That guy wasn't his problem.<p>

Black-on-black is very black, and these shadows were black indeed, but were they very black enough? Willy, at the right hand corner of the gate complex, pressed himself into their depths as best he could, knowing it would take more than shadows to remain unseen. He knew full well there was no real cover where the wall arced out from the gates _except_ these shadows, and that, deary, dear, wasn't much. To stay hidden, he'd have to stay still, in mind as well as body. That was no big deal—he could do that—and here was where he wanted to be. Be. Plan B. It was sooo hard not to laugh… just a little giggle? Nah. Focus! Statues. The good news was, if he was right about the effect of the lights, it wouldn't be for long.

* * *

><p><em><strong>dionne dance<strong>: Willy does like his fun. This night is such a turning point for so many people, I'm loathe to leave any of it unexplored. Felix will have to wait till I can circle back._

_Holy cow, **holygoatlaugher**, thanks for the herd of reviews you've heaped on my story; I'm heartily happy to have them!_

_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.__ Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think._


	14. Mistaken Identity

Halfway up the hill, Terence was a hair's breadth from turning the corner into his street when the Factory lights abruptly extinguished.

At first freezing in mid-stride, Terence took his sweet ol' time squaring up his stance and bringing the foot in the air to the ground. With narrowed eyes and a cold smile, he relished the imperfection. Missed your timing on that one, ol' Willy, ol' friend— when you pulled the plug, my foot was still in the air.

The small victory savored, Terence cocked his head, contemplating the implications. The effect was not without its drama. Turning on the lights had been lovely; turning them off was ominous. Who knew what murky explanation lay behind it? A corner of Terence's mouth tightened. The answer to that loomed as large as the darkened Factory: Willy knew.

Touché, Mr. Wonka. In mock salute, Terence embellished the thought by touching two fingers to his temple. Can I now retreat to my flat for some decent sleep? Assuredly no. Why bother? Curiosity would serve me up as its late-night snack. And all courtesy of this latest electrifying development— arranged by you.

Feeling like a fish on a line, Terence took a half-reluctant step up the hill. Willy was playing him and he knew it. And yet… a little of the restlessness that had dogged him since he'd left the Factory dropped away. He took another step, and a little more fell away; and then another, with the same result. At some point, when you're being played this adroitly, the only gracious alternative is to give in. The breath Terence exhaled rose before him in a cloud of steam. So that's what relief looks like.

Quickening his pace, the fingers of Terence's left hand curled into the folds of the rolled up sleeping bag he carried in the crook of his arm. Fixing a mistake feels better than making it, and Terence's heart smiled at the simplicity. The Bucket house be bothered, the Factory was the focus tonight; he should have seen that at once. Snappish ever since, instead of trashing Willy's invite, he should have snapped it up.

Knee-jerk, Terence concluded, as he gained the top of the hill. It took him only a second to attribute his error in judgment to a lifelong conflict with confinement—those Factory walls were no joke—and even less time to dismiss the miscalculation as history. With his lips pressed into a thin, tight smile, Terence was confident the error was easily mended.

Footsteps coming fast from behind him captured Felix's attention. Forgetting the Factory, he turned on the bench, heaving his head and neck over the back support in time to see some joker enter the plaza carrying something bulky. Felix readied to snarl a warning if the dude approached, but the new guy was already slowing without his help.

Its businesses shuttered till morning, and its other neighbor nobody's destination—even in daylight—the little plaza was about as deserted as you'd expect to find a plaza late at night. But it was an open space, and Terence took a pull before committing himself to the feeble light of the street lamps dotted around it. The pull paid off. The Factory gates and walls were in shadow—the street lamps favored the frequented establishments—but movement on the bench in front of the bicycle shop caught his attention; some busybody no doubt, with no business being there.

Terence stepped off the sidewalk, making a beeline for the bench to check it out. Offense was so refreshing.

"Sod off, ass…"

"Don't say it," chimed in Terence cheerily, only halfway across the street, and already veering back toward the Factory's left-hand gate. "Mr. Wonka doesn't abide swearing."

"I don't give a flying f…"

"Shssh," hissed Terence over his shoulder, not breaking stride, his suspicions confirmed.

"…what that wa…"

"Bridges, burning…" Terence sang out.

"…ker Wonka abides."

The benchwarmer had failed to disguise his voice even the slightest. No doubt about it, the blustery bloke on the bench was that lurking reporter. Serene with the knowledge, Terence kept on for the Factory.

Felix watched in disbelief as the man he now recognized as Terence James propelled himself at Wonka's left-hand gate. Felix half rose from the bench. That gate wasn't gonna budge, but this guy wasn't slowing, like he was sure it would open. His speed screamed it. Maybe it would. It might. It just might. Felix held his breath. If it did, he'd make a sprint for it, and get in too.

The suspense was terrible, but it didn't last. The gate held.

Terence's eyes widened at the impossibility, but his bruised wrist confirmed the outcome he didn't want to believe. "Ow," he muttered, in deference to the listening devices, shaking out his wrist and trying again. No luck. May as well use 'em. "It's me," he stage-whispered into the cold night air.

The declaration left the gate unmoved.

Disgusted, Terence looked for a note. Nothing was going right tonight. No note. That's it. At this fresh evidence of just how touchy his touchy friend was—talk about thin skin—and inspired by the reporter's recent example, a stinging string of unbidden curses cascaded through Terence's head. But biting them all back he said only, "If you hadn't turned off the lights, you'd _know_ it was me…"

"I…"

Terence felt the end of a curved finger descend on his shoulder, tapping at him like a spike. In that moment, the night's simmering frustration focused itself like a laser beam on that one spot, and boiled over. That SLUG of a reporter had somehow snuck up behind him, and THAT was a _BIG_ mistake. _That _shit… DIDN'T happen. Whirling, Terence caught his assailant's hand and wrist in his, twisting them inexorably, not caring if they broke.

Felix watched the assault in shock, his mouth agape. The old geezer had peeled himself off the wall, out of the shadows by the right-hand gate, and come up behind James; except the geezer was walking perfectly normally—noiselessly in fact—carrying the unused cane in his hand.

Sense seeped back, and Terence found his tactic working no better than the gate. For one thing, Terence wasn't feeling flesh and bone, or even sleeve and mitten. He was feeling tightly curled fur, too voluminous to properly grip. And unlike most people, who stood like statues letting their wrist and arm be twisted, this fellow was twisting himself beneath the grip, turning the tables, until Terence had no choice but to let go, lest it be his wrist that snapped.

Transfixed, Felix stared dumbfounded at the macabre dance. It was over in seconds, the geezer now up against the left-hand gate, James jumping back, out of reach.

"Owwww!" came an immediate, high-pitched wail. "You're fierce!"

Terence didn't know whether to laugh or die. There was only one person in the world with that voice.

"Holy sh…"

"Don't say it!" piped up Willy, holding his hand and arm tightly across his chest. "I've heard I don't abide swearing."

"You don't," muttered Terence, defeated.

"I don't," agreed Willy, considering.

Felix, hearing the voices without understanding the words, wondered what in hell was going on. Silent words of his own tracked a headline across the inside of his skull like a banner: _Hapless Hobo Trounced By Would-be Wonka Factory Trespasser. _It might even amount to something if the geezer got pulverized. _Film at Eleven._ Shit. No film. Felix hadn't even thought to bring a camera.

"Your turn, old fish," said Willy distractedly, rubbing his wrist while reviewing Plan B. It had worked well enough, but it perplexed him he hadn't anticipated this reaction to Terence being snuck-up on—his fault, not Terence's—and even more perplexed Terence had yet to produce the expected witty comeback.

"I didn't know it was you."

"That's it? That's the best ya got? That's not inventive," Willy scowled, tilting his head with a grin. "I _said,_ 'You're fierce.'"

"And you're flexible," countered Terence, hoping it was true on more than one level, dismay edging his voice. He paused. "Where'd ya learn that?"

"That's better," said Willy mildly, still rubbing his wrist. "The jungle— not the leafy kind. You'd make a good bodyguard."

"For _you_?"

"Of course not, silly. For Charlie."

The two friends eyed each other, Terence at a loss for an answer.

Seeing the pulverization prospect petering out, Felix lost hope in his alternate story's chances. The two were talking in low tones that didn't impress as budding litigation. Felix sat up taller, straining to hear what they were saying.

Catching the motion, Willy lifted the top of his cane, indicating the man on the bench across the street. "He has a car."

"Lots of…" Terence bit off his words and turned to look at the bench. He'd made enough mistakes. It was time for him to catch up. The reporter—what was his name?—was sitting bolt upright, staring at them. "Where?"

Willy sighed happily. "On that side street. My cameras can't read the cruddy plate. I'm out investigating." Willy knit his brows peevishly. "Which I wouldn't've had to do if you hadn't left."

The petulant tone and implied still-open invitation caught Terence just so: he laughed.

"It's not funny. I'm dressing down, this isn't my hat, I've had to listen to obscenities, and I've been attacked." Finishing with a sly smile that belied his first words, Willy gave his wrist a final rub before letting his arm drop.

Terence's eyes dropped with it. "Sorry. He's who I thought you were."

"Then I approve of the treatment. He," Willy sniffed, "is who I don't want here."

"So call the police."

"Say you didn't say that. Are you off your rocker? Reports, rigmarole. I…"

"…Okay, you hate outsiders…"

Willy nodded.

"…So chase him off with the Elevator."

Willy darted furtive eyes toward Terence and then back to the problem. "Notability. Noise. Notoriety. Not into those for now. Charlie has his hands full as it is."

"You might be right…"

"Of _course_ I'm right…"

"If you whoa for a minute," broke in Terence, "I was about to say— I know that guy, so your investigation is over. He's a reporter— the one I spoke to today, uh, yesterday."

Willy eyed the bench, one corner of his mouth pulled down in a frown, even as he rocked contentedly on his heels. "I thought so. Mr. Claims-I'm-Putting-in-a-Park?"

"No, I claimed that," clarified Terence lightly, "He's the one who published it." The elusive name swam up from the depths, popping to the surface. "Ficklegruber. Mr. F. Ficklegruber. I don't know what the 'F' stands for, but if his language is any indication..."

At the name, Willy straightened as if touched by a white-hot poker, his eyes narrowing to slits, his jaw clenching, his teeth on edge. "You don't say," he whispered in a malevolent, snaky hiss.

Terence felt his gut knot. "Surely you knew— you mentioned me being your spokesman. Didn't you read his name when you read the squib?"

Willy swung dead-flat eyes off Ficklegruber and on to Terence, his mouth a thin line, his lips as bloodless as his face. An icy fire smoldered behind Willy's eyes Terence wished he wasn't seeing. Under the spell of that glance, it took everything Terence had not to shiver.

"Eshle," Willy confided silkily, "had the sense to read me that nonsense while I worked on something else, and the further sense not to read me that name. Since then— sensibly I now see— that paper has been unseen by me." Willy turned his focus back to the bench. "I think," he breathed lazily, "I'll invite Mr.— Inconstanscavum— into the Factory. Right now. There's so much for a reporter to see." His voice dripped with honey, but he punched the bottom of his cane on the pavement, moving glassy-eyed to step around Terence and go.

Latin! Reserved for parents and God knew what other atrocities, Terence wasted no time laying a hand on Willy's curly furred coat, holding him back.

Expressionless, Willy halted.

"I'll get rid of him," said Terence, letting go of Willy's arm. "Right now."

Somewhere beyond words, Willy nodded.

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.__ Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think. __**dionne dance**: you do let me know, and I thank you._


	15. Amateur Hour

Having taken a step forward, Terence took a step back. Keeping an eye on both would be best, but that wasn't possible. "Known or unknown?"

There was no response, and Terence needed one. "Willy."

A flick of the eyes. "Terence."

"You. As far as he's concerned. Known or unknown?"

Willy's baleful stare fixed itself back on the Ficklegruber. A purple sphere started small in his brain, writhing as it grew, like a giant defective candy balloon, filling every cranny, until with an excruciating pop!, it exploded in tatters. Scalloped-edged, multi-hued ice cream letters, melting at the edges, tumbled from the wreckage and fell into a word: KNOWN.

I want to be known.

No. Wrong. A flick of the wrist. Dismissed like a naughty child, the 'N' shamefully melted into gloppy goo. KNOW. That's right. Extraneous now, the remaining letters swirled into each other and whirled away as an all-day sucker. A sucker. All day. Me or him? This Ficklegruber— he should know…know how it feels to see his future sucked away, reduced to the shavings in a pencil-sharpener. Shredded hopes. Decimated dreams…yeah. How'd ya like that, sucker. With sprinkles? Anticipating a smile, the muscles at the corners of Willy's mouth twitched in spasm, but with a shake of his head, he let it go. _This_ one wasn't _that_ one. _That _one...knew better.

"Terence."

"Willy."

"Did you know, that 'know' spelled backwards is almost my name?"

Terence thought it over and cocked his head. "Eh?"

Willy flashed him a grin like sunshine, and stifled the giggles. "How 'bout that? Eeny-meeny, I pick unknown. This one is a late-model."

"Okay. Then I am going to push you."

Willy frowned at Terence bothering to say every word. It took forever. "You already do."

"No, I mean really. Hard. Ready?"

Willy's eyes widened and he stood taller, but if Terence had a plan that involved pushing, then he had a plan that involved pushing—which wouldn't have been _his_ plan—but you had to plan on other people doing other than what you planned when you put your plan in their hands. Willy laughed at his thinking, but not so you could hear him. Following the permutations of the phrases was exhausting, but going along when you'd rather not is _so_ much easier when you haven't the energy to object, or better yet, the energy to make yourself scarce. Not there though, yet. Pushing, prodding, poking…so be it, so be it, so bee it. The ghost of a sigh. I've bee'n here before.

This wasn't helping as much as he'd like, but it was, some, and Willy managed to resign himself to the deed, the process shrinking him back to a version he'd left years ago. More than years. Decades. Not decades of decades, but decades and dec…I must stop stalling. Oh well. This wouldn't be the first time, and what he had on was more than enough padding not to bruise. Black and blue on pale looked atrocious, and the yellow later was worse. Great colors for candies, though. With closed eyes, Willy nodded.

The transformation was alarming, challenging Terence to stay impassive. Willy was an empty chrysalis—fragile and withered looking—as if everything that made him 'him' had deserted him. A touch might crush him. Terence revised his plan, even as he put it into motion.

The two were at it again, and Felix licked his lips. James was haranguing the guy, with every word, his voice getting louder. Another decibel or two and he'd hear what James was saying. It sounded like gibberish now, but it must be good. The geezer was as old as time again, some nameless weight collapsing him like a telescope. Suddenly James's arm shot out and struck the dude on the shoulder.

"I don't give a rat's ass _who_ you say you are, or _what_ you think you're doing here!"

Felix could hear everything. The lightning blow sent the guy in the fur reeling into the Factory wall. He almost fell.

"Get OUTTA HERE. Go back where you came from!"

Felix imagined the dude cowering.

"AMSCRAY!"

The only thing that would make this better was popcorn. Felix fumbled for his pocket, grubby fingers in half-gloves digging out pencil and paper to scribble notes. Why the fuck hadn't he remembered his camera?

"YOU!"

The yell was close, startling Felix. Like a tank, James was halfway across the street, closing fast. Astonished so much had changed in so little time, Felix pushed himself to his feet. "You can't chase ME away, fuc…"

"SIT!"

The object James was carrying flew through the air, propelled with both arms from James's chest. It hit Felix square in his chest, paper and pencil flying out of his hand as he fought to control the thing. Losing his balance, Felix fell back on the bench, clutching whatever it was tightly.

"Move over. I'M HELPING YOU."

Felix tensed. Helping him? What was this about? James joined him on the bench, not too close.

Helping him? What was this about? The Factory wall was cold, and rough, and gigandiferous, and Willy welcomed it. With leather-gloved fingers spread, the flat of his hand supported him against it like a small child, clutching his mother's leg. Leaning, Willy looked up, not seeing the top for the gloom. The walls had to be tall or the Factory would dwarf them. They'd look silly. That'd be silly. So close was he, the breath he exhaled froze on the stone in a sheen of icy droplets. This side of this wall— it was the wrong one.

With his other hand, Willy cushioned his head, adjusting his peeking to the bench. Chummy-chummy they were— sitting like old pals, but that couldn't be so. Could it? Please, not again. Who _do_ you trust? Moving the hand at his head away and up, Willy laid his cheek against the stoney points and knew if he moved he would bleed. Terence had made it impossible for him _not_ to hear the helping part, and he hadn't pushed him. He'd pulled the punch at the last second, after spouting a crescendo of nonsense syllables. They'd been funny—_Jabberwocky_ on steroids—and he'd relaxed. The last four sentences had been plain enough, and the soft guidance on his shoulder made his part in the scheme just as plain. Willy's own ice-skate like stutter steps had brought him to the wall, and this position. That'd been fun, too, and he'd smiled in his scarf as he'd danced them. He'd give almost anything to hear what they were saying now, but with the distance, Terence might as well be mumbling.

"You looked like this would do you some good, and I'm guessing you don't need that guy cramping your style any more than I do."

James jerked his thumb at the nutter. Felix squinted at the friendly, conversational tone, and the sleeping bag he held in his arms.

"Careful of the Cottonmouth inside. They don't like crushing."

Shit! Tricked! A poisonous snake!

Suddenly, the Ficklegruber twitched as if bitten, the sleeping bag went flying, and Willy almost cut his cheek with surprise. 'Kay, then. This worrying was silly. Terence was having his fun, and it was time to take his advice— slink away, and leave Terence to it.

Felix snapped open his arms. The bag would have fallen to the ground had Terence not scooped it up with his foot, tossing it into the air, catching it easily and plunking it down on the bench between them.

"You're not very good at this, are you?"

The look from Felix was pure flummox, with a pinch of pure venom. Damned if he'd answer, Felix turned away to see the chump against the wall shuffle into the shadows of the gates.

Terence followed Ficklegruber's eyes, but chuckled. "It's February, sport. I'm describing a reptile. If it went into hibernation stretched out straight, it'd be like a frozen tire iron tonight. No threat to you, or anyone." He leaned a little closer, his breath rising in wisps. "Why aren't _you_ hibernating tonight? In your car. Stretched out. With your tire iron."

Ruminating on his options, Felix turned back and blinked a few times. Anger surged and answered for him. "None of your freakin' business shi…"

"AND that's what I'm talk'n' 'bout LOSER, because 'source' does not start with a 'ssshhi' sound. I am your S-O-U-R-C-E, as in the SOURCE of your information. Remember? Yesterday? So _drop_ the attitude, and start treating me with _KID GLOVES!_" Gloves. Terence wiped the smirk off his face before Ficklegruber could see it.

There was a long pause as the cogs turned. "You don't know I have a car."

Folding his hands behind his head, Terence leaned back and stretched out a leg. "Sure I do. Your buddy told me."

Willy had cleared the gates and was moving slowly along the wall, leaning on his cane for all it was worth. It was some show.

"He told me he saw you get out of it. Said he followed you here."

"He's not_ my_ buddy," Felix protested. "He followed you, too."

"So aren't you glad I got rid of him?" Terence snapped.

Felix sized him up. James didn't look like he gave a shit what the answer was. He was staring after the weirdo, like where _he_ was going was more important than the conversation. Felix crossed his arms and sat back.

Cursing his lapse in discipline, Terence dragged himself back from the mystery of the unknown Factory entrance Willy's course would reveal. "What is this? Surveillance?"

Felix nodded. The companionable tone was back.

"Not your usual schtick though, is it."

Still friendly. Felix shook his head.

"What is?"

Felix swallowed. "Obituaries."

"Ah." Terence acknowledged. One of a newspaper's entry-level positions. "Here for a scoop?"

"Yeah."

Terence waited. Ficklegruber was sullen, but he was relaxing.

"I figure if Wonka is moving some house, something's up. If I find out what it is, maybe I can get out of the basement quicker. Tonight seemed good, 'cuz the lights came on."

"Maybe," allowed Terence. "But this isn't how you do it. If you have a car, stay in it. It's warm, and it's protection. It's also a quick getaway. And it keeps people from sitting down beside you, like a spider." Terence winked. "Or a snake."

Ficklegruber grinned. "I thought I could react better doing it this way."

"Strange attracts attention. This isn't Miami, and it isn't August. Camping on a night like this is kinda creepy." He gestured to the Factory. "It's bound to alert them. Put them on their guard. Stick to the car. Better yet, stick to someone with an 'in'. I went to school with Mr. Wonka."

Ficklegruber puffed up. "Oh, yeah? Big deal. My dad worked for that piece of shi… I mean, Wonka."

_Now_ he was getting somewhere. The mystery of The Ficklegruber Effect— Willy sure wasn't gonna tell him. Terence hid this smile, too. "So your dad's got an 'in'. Ask him to ask Mr. Wonka for your scoop."

Ficklegruber crumpled. "It was only part-time…"

"Speak up."

"My dad had his own shop." The puffery was back. "He sold ice cream. Ice cream that never melted."

"Wow," drawled Terence, seizing the sleeping bag to mask the flinch he couldn't stop. This slob was the son of one of the spies. "Didn't Mr. Wonka sell that?"

"Yeah, but my dad's…"

Terence leaned forward. Rat-a-tat. "What's your dad's name?"

Felix went smart-ass. "Ficklegruber."

Terence's scowl looked dangerous.

"Freddie," Felix cringed away. "Wha' d' _you_ care?"

Rat-a-tat. "What's yours?"

"Felix."

"Your dad still sell ice cream?"

The questions were bullets. Answering felt like dodging them. "No. He sells used cars."

"Here?"

"Yeah."

"For long?"

"For years."

Terence doubled over in a fit of laughter, dragging himself off the bench, the sleeping bag still in his hands. The kid was an idiot and Willy was a marshmallow. Terence had what he wanted, and this was over. "Time to go, Mr. Felix Ficklegruber, old chap. There's no scoop for you here tonight, or any night, ice cream or otherwise. Do yourself a flavor, I mean favor, and go back to your car. Do yourself a bigger favor and take a page out of your father's book— forget about Willy Wonka, and hope he forgets about you."

Ficklegruber was on his feet, seething. "You can't make me!"

Terence stepped back. A fuming Ficklegruber wouldn't do. "You're right, I can't, and you'll have to decide for yourself what you do. But I am telling you, in all niceness, to go back to your car, and forget any plans you may have to get back at Mr. Wonka, whom you obviously dislike. They won't end well— for you."

"Says you."

"Says me. And probably your father."

Ficklegruber looked away, struggling with himself. His father had all ready said all the same things. "He's a wimp."

"I didn't catch that, but don't repeat it. I'm thinking you thought you'd do Mr. Wonka in somehow with this, but if you have anything else in mind, I'll be happy to help you, and I'll start with this. Next time, check what you're told before you print it. There's no park. At least, not at this second."

"But you told me…"

"I made it up. You're supposed to check. How do I know you wouldn't? That's Journalism 101. If you got it wrong, it's your own fault."

"But you said: 'Not at this second'."

"Mr. Wonka's considering the suggestion. It will depend on who owns the land and a host of other things."

Felix considered that. He might not look like a jerk after all, but it would be Wonka bailing him out. That only made him madder, but still… "If I could get a big enough story, I could blow this two-bit town."

"Then I think we're in agreement. I'll help you blow this two-bit town any way I can. Now run along, so we can all get some sleep. You know where to find me, I'll be down the hill at the Bucket house. That _is_ being moved."

Felix stood in the cold, not wanting to look like that other turkey— like James was hustling him off. "That dude had bats in the belfry," he confided, looking up at the dark Factory, running the sight through his mind. "He was standing at the gates, swatting imaginary flies."

"Were the lights on?"

"Yeah."

Terence nodded. "That's bizarre all right. If you see him again, let me know."

Feeling that balanced the scales, Felix grunted, and left for his car.

Terence sat back on the bench, waiting to see the car drive out, one way or the other. In a few minutes it did, the Factory suffering the bird Felix flipped its way in silence, Terence returning the phony wave flipped his way with matching enthusiasm. The bluish puffs spewing from the clunker's muffler disappeared with the tail lights as the car headed down the hill, one street over.

Terence stood. Now what? Best to get home. He walked to the corner and pivoted left. Behind him, the Factory wall lights, and only the Factory wall lights, snapped on. 'If you hadn't turned off the lights, you'd _know _it was me…' Terence had said that, and the lights were now on. It was an invitation he wouldn't refuse a second time.

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.__ Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think. __**dionne dance**: Thank you once again for your insights, they are always __appreciated. **Ifwecansparkle**: Thanks for joining the party with your kind words._


	16. A Lot to Look At

The warm glow of light seeped over the window sill, and into his room. Sleepless since the lights had gone off, Charlie slid out of bed and crept across the floor to see what he could see.

This time, only the other side of the wall was lit, but Charlie still knew. It was Terence, with bent head and determined stride, crossing the courtyard. Charlie's hunched shoulders relaxed at once. Everyone was home now, and that was good. With a smile stealing over his face, Charlie stole ever so silently back to his bed, where he was soon in happy dreamland.

* * *

><p>A third of the way down the Factory's empty main corridor, a splotch of brown marred the red of the carpet; a curly brown splotch, mounded in an untidy heap. Terence slowed at the sight. Softly lit, the corridor showed no sign of anyone. The place may as well have been deserted. Tapping his fingers on the side of his sleeping bag, Terence turned his head to check the shadows in the vestibule. The rasp of the fabric dropped like lead into the silence.<p>

"Willy said you'd probably bring your own accommodation, roughing it as he says you like to do, and to tell you, you are welcome to sleep anywhere."

The words snapped Terence's head back 'round. Eshle had detached himself from the heap on the floor, and was standing next to it, with a stiffness and dour face in sharp contrast to his earlier demeanor towards him. Terence took note.

"I'm sorry to keep you up."

Eshle barely moved a finger, pointing.

"Willy says you can use this as a pillow, if you like."

With slow steps Terence approached the dubious 'this'. Eshle stood aside to let Terence pick it up.

"Tonight's coat?"

Tight-lipped, Eshle nodded, first fastening his attention on the ratty buffalo coat, and then on the person holding it.

Terence saw it all, and understood the undercurrent. If he'd stayed put after dinner, as Willy had asked, Willy wouldn't have had to use it. Terence brushed aside the tinge of guilt, answering the unspoken accusation.

"Willy's a big boy. He can manage for himself."

"If you're his friend, why should he have to?"

Taken to task by the staccato words, and burning eyes, Terence shook out the coat, and draped it over his arm.

"And there you have a point. Why indeed?"

Unflinching, they locked stares, until mollified, Eshle relented.

"Oompa-Loompas stick together. Finding ways to help each other is what we do. It's the first thing we do. It surprises us that's not the way of the rest of the world." He paused. "We did see you get rid of that person on the bench. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Terence paused. "If I don't use this as a pillow, what then?"

With a nod, Eshle agreed the shift would close the previous subject.

"Then Willy will take it back to wherever he got it from."

"I don't see him here to do that."

"He's in the Inventing Room."

Terence raised a brow.

"Where I can't go."

"Actually," Eshle smiled an impish smile, and waved a genial hand toward the entrance behind them, "he said if you asked, you're welcome to join him. Take the Elevator."

* * *

><p>If only that Elevator didn't have such a distinctive 'Ding!'. It was worse than shouting from the rooftops for announcing your presence. Terence would have loved to stroll around the Inventing Room for hours, taking it all in, but that 'ding' did in that hope before he could think, 'what is all this?'<p>

"You're early," floated Willy's voice, from the depths of the room.

For what?

"You don't have any collision lights," Terence called back. Dead silence. Terence smiled. "What are these colored balls doing in this tank of water?"

Footsteps, accompanied by the tapping of a walking stick, clicked across the polished floor. Willy, in full regalia, appeared beside him.

"They're being tested."

"Why are they shooting around?"

"I _have_ collision lights."

"Not tonight you don't. They are off, off, off. I pity the poor aviator who flies into your smokestacks, for want of those lights."

"_I_ pity my poor smokestacks. Try not to fall in, while I correct that. I'll be back in a jiff."

As Willy's footsteps clicked away, Terence left the tank and moved to a large machine near the center of the room, that towered high over his head. Hundreds of capillary tubes snaked into the top of it, making a complete, closely packed circle. These, were the machine in operation, filled a central glass globe that in turn joined with a not much smaller metal drum. The design, except for the tubes, repeated itself in ever smaller iterations until at waist level, it ended in a metal container no bigger than a pack of cards, and having a small door.

"You do get around."

Terence tore himself away from the colossal view long enough to acknowledge Willy's return, but that was all. "It looks like the gills of a giant mushroom joined to the wide end of a telescope. What is it?"

Pleased, Willy looked up, too.

"It does kinda look like that. That," Willy pointed, "doesn't work the way I want it to yet, but it almost does. That— this— is my Three-Course-Meal gum machine." With a sidelong smirk, he glanced at Terence. "Watch out you don't slip on the leftover blueberry juice."

Terence jumped back, and reminded of the Ficklegruber's reaction to something Terence had said, Willy snickered softly.

"Kidding. There's no gum, and no juice. There's no nothing going on in here just now except some tests I have in progress, that I don't need to stop." Willy turned on his heel, and walked back to the tank.

"Why stop any of it?" Getting no answer, Terence followed, taking in for the first time how quiet the room did seem, and not only because it was late at night.

"These," Willy curled his fingers over the edge of the tank, "are Everlasting Gobstoppers. The Oompa-Loompas wanted to try snorkeling and scuba, and I wanted to see how long they last. I had an Oompa-Loompa sucking one, but after a year, he was gettin' kinda tired of it, and that was makin' 'im cranky."

"A year?"

"A year."

Seeing the colored balls flung about, Terence repeated his question.

"Why make them shoot through the water?"

"An easy way to put pressure on the surface of the candy, the way sucking them would. Each one has its own mark. The Oompa-Loompas swim around catching them, so they can measure them."

"Sounds like fun."

"It is."

"So how long do they last?"

"The Oompa-Loompas? Until their skin starts getting froggy, or they get bored." Terence made a face at that, and Willy, grinning back at him, got serious. "I dunno. None of the Stoppers have gotten any smaller. Yet." Caught by a thought, Willy put his chin in the palm of his hand, and tapped a finger against his jaw. "I probably, if they don't get any smaller, need to make different sizes." He tapped some more. "Humph."

Dropping his hand and the thought, Willy left the tank, heading for the back of the room.

"Come on. I'm solving a problem for you, you don't know you have. Yet."

"And which problem is that?" Terence wondered aloud. "The one where I don't know what I'm early for?"

"Ha! Not that one!" Willy sang out, happy to finally get a reaction, and in his zeal, opening up a considerable lead.

In the subdued room, Terence trailed after the disappearing Wonka. The room was huge, and high, and cluttered, and crisscrossed with catwalks, but it had a certain order to it. Each area had its own collection of needed machines, and supplies, and storage for whatever experiment was ongoing, and though at first look it was overwhelming, after a while, picking his way among the ovens, and cooktops with their pots and pans, and worktops, and shelves, and cupboards, and freezers, and coolers, and chillers, and gadgets, and gizmos, and who knew what else, Terence felt like he was making sense of the space. One thing, in particular, stood out.

"Is there any place in here to sit?"

Willy only laughed, as stepping aside and halting, he held out a hand. To his left was an expansive, well-lit worktop with incorporated oven, cooktop, sink, and storage. A few tools lay by a small shape near the edge of the worktop that could have been a half a cigar, or a whole bug. Before them stood a pear-wood secretary desk and chair, its back facing them. Terence could see a shelf running along the rear of the desk that he guessed sheltered pigeon holes in front. Underneath the writing surface was a narrow central drawer with sets of flanking drawers, two on either side. Desks of this type were small, Terence knew, but lockable. To the right, arranged diagonally near the desk, was a wide, scroll design chaise lounge, with a tufted fabric top and pear-wood trim. A low table sat at its far side, with a few Oompa-Loompa sized ottomans tucked underneath.

"How 'bout here? I mostly work standing up, but every so often, I like to have a spot where I can ponder." Willy held out his hands. "You can drop the pillow anywhere… ditto for your portable nest. I think you've carried them far enough."

Heavy though it was, Terence knew better than to drop the moth-eaten coat. He handed it to Willy, who took it to the desk, laying it carefully across the seat of the chair. Next he set his top hat on the desk, and leaned his Nerd-filled walking stick against one of its legs.

The chaise was inviting, and Terence made himself comfortable, his portable nest tucked at his side. Willy seemed to have forgotten about him, having crossed to the worktop, engrossing himself with examining the doohickey. There was loads that needed discussing, with none of it happening. Like a clap of thunder, Terence shot forward on the chaise, smacking both hands down on the fabric.

"WATCH OUT FOR THE COCKROACH!"

In the second before it dawned on him that this was pay-back for the juice gag, Willy took a sliding step to the side, his left hand raised like an eagle's talon, ready to strike at the vermin. Then he realized. This was a hoax. There were_ no_ _cockroaches_ in _his_ Inventing Room— everybody knew that.

"Ya got me," Willy said, dropping his arm, the unaccustomed surprise making him giggle nervously for a second. "This is _not, _heaven forfend, a cockroach. It's not even alive. It's a candy dragonfly nymph."

"As in dragonfly bowl, dragonfly nymph?" Willy had made one of these for Georgina before he'd moved the family into the Factory, but with mixed results. George had eaten half of it.

"Yeah. That." Willy moved to the other side of the table, where he could work, and keep Terence in sight, at the same time. "I have to finish this before the morning meeting."

"The thing I'm early for?"

"Yeah. That." Willy, absorbed in the work before him again, rearranged the implements and pulled a sheet with spun candy dragonfly features closer to the main body. "You know… What if this were a cockroach? Like for Halloween. What if this were all crackly and crispy on the outside, with long legs that hung out of your mouth and looked gross as you ate it?"

"Like spider legs?"

"Yeah, like those. With a gooey center, in different colors, like gut-brown, and bile-green, and blood-red, but they stayed separate, and were sticky, so when you opened your mouth, it looked like insect innards were covering your teeth." Willy's eyes were sparkling, and he laughed. "What about worms? Yeah… worms… A great big ball of wrigglely, gummy worms, all curly and green, and brown, and grey, with long tails sticking out, like the snakes on Medusa's head, in all different lengths, all separate from each other. You could bite into the ball and shake your head around like they were spewing from your guts… Like _they_ were eating _you, _instead of _you _eating _them."_

"You're getting all this from a cockroach mention?"

Transported, Willy whipped a postcard size notebook out of a pocket in the tail of his coat, and began scribbling madly with the pencil stuck in its spirals. "You have to write it down immediately, or you forget. They'd be treats AND tricks!"

"They'd be a great reason to chew with your mouth open. Parents would hate them."

"Wouldn't that be lovely?" Willy stared ceiling-ward, lost in the possibilities. His eyes came back to earth. "You're a terrible retailer."

Terence wasn't going to argue with that.

"I've decided they can stay. All of them."

"Just now?"

"Tonight, at dinner. And after. That Ficklegruber. I want the house moved in here yesterday."

Terence smiled crookedly. "I was thinking the same thing."

"Good. This," Willy pointed to the dragonfly, "should take care of your shop, while you devout your full attention to hustling up the move. I assume you still think it's important to keep that shop for your cover?"

Terence nodded, and Willy made a face while rolling his head. "Whatever. I have to finish this now, or it won't be ready for the meeting. I'm almost done, but you're on your own till I am." Having said he worked standing up, for this, as delicate as it was, Willy pulled out a stool and sat down.

"Do they know about the meeting?"

"They'll find out in the morning," said Willy, lowering his head.

Terence looked around. Explore, or stay and watch? He had a meeting to go to, a house to move, and it was almost two in the morning. The smart move would be a nap. He unrolled his sleeping bag and undid the zip, spreading it out like a blanket. It was a mummy bag, not very wide at the bottom, and he stuck his feet in.

"I won't be that long."

"You will if you keep watching what I'm doing, and don't work." Terence rested on his side, his head propped up by his hand. "I may as well catch a nap, and you did say anywhere."

"Hm. I did, didn't I."

Terence readjusted his head in his hand to see better. From mosquito netted shelters in the tropics, to a chaise lounge in Willy Wonka's Inventing Room, watching Willy Wonka work: you just never knew where you might end up. Willy was warming and attaching tiny spun sugar pieces to the work he had already done, building it up like glazes on a painting. It was painstaking to watch, much less do. "You're going to a lot of trouble for a candy Georgina will have eaten in a second."

"No, I'm not… I have my standards, and I hope not." Willy hadn't looked up.

Terence turned to the desk. A stoppered, glass vial sat off to the side nearest him, filled with little brown candies, with lighter beige speckles running through them. They looked good, and they looked like fudge. They were individually wrapped, in bite sized pieces, but the wrappings looked old, and the rim of the stopper was dusty.

"Can you reach that?"

Willy's eyes were glittering as Terence turned to him, and then back to the vial.

"I think so."

Willy had stopped work, nodding eagerly to encourage him.

"Do it."

Terence leaned over and took the vial.

"Open it."

Terence opened it.

"Take one."

Terence obliged.

Willy had a rictus grin on his face, nodding his head like a bobble-head toy.

"Eat it."

Terence was dubious. The wrapping had the brittle quality wrappings like this get when they're about to disintegrate. His fingers started to untwist the cellophane.

"It'll be awful," Willy beamed.

Awful? Terence, with the candy partially unwrapped, took a whiff. It smelled fine. In fact, it smelled great.

"Would you eat it?"

"Not in a million years," laughed Willy. "You asked me why I have this place sorta closed down, and if you eat one of those, you'll have your answer. You know how good my candies taste?"

Terence nodded, still holding the morsel.

"Well, that's how bad they can taste, too, and if you don't believe me, eat that."

Terence re-twisted the wrap, and popped the impostor back into the vial.

"Smart man. I keep that on my desk to remind myself not to invent candies when I'm not my happy, chipper self. I actually take a nibble now and then, because I stop believing how unbelievably badly I can make things, and those things make me a believer again."

Terence replaced the vial on the desk.

"How old are they?"

"I made them after the spy thing. After I closed the Factory."

"I know Ficklegruber was one of the spies. This one's name is Felix, by the way. What did you say? This one's late-model? Not the man himself, but his son? I think you're right. What about the other spies? What were their names? Are they still around?"

With clasped hands, elbows on the table, Willy had knit his fingers together, nervously making and unmaking a steeple with them as he listened to Terence, turning his head further away with each word. Now he rolled himself off the stool and walked into the shadows, grabbing his top hat and walking stick from the desk as he went.

Willy didn't go far, and Terence let him be. His hands were behind his back, nervously playing with the cane he held parallel to the floor. His hat was on his head, which he had tilted back, in close examination of the shadows above him. In due course he returned to the desk, returned the items to their former places, and returned to his seat.

"I have to finish this."

Terence spared him an answer that would have added nothing, and closed his eyes to take that nap.

Willy, grateful, flew through the rest of the project. In half an hour, the completed nymph was safely in a box in his pocket. Tidying up his tools, he said to the chaise, "There is no 'Gruber' in Latin. I had to go with what it means in German. Pit. Or 'hollow'. And that's fitting. Those spies make me feel hollow."

A soft snore was his answer. Taking off his boots, Willy walked to the foot of the chaise. Terence, the sleeping bag blanket in disarray, was soundly asleep. Swell. I'm ready to talk, and he's asleep. Willy thought about adjusting the blanket, but thought better of it. It didn't matter; the Factory was plenty warm, and waking Terence was the last thing he wanted. Maybe getting ready to talk wouldn't take so long next time, and sleep was a good idea.

Taking his hat and walking stick, Willy left the room. Once out, he arranged with Kelii to post an unobtrusive guard or three in the room with Terence—we must keep him safe from the Inventing Room!—and made his own way to the nearest of his dozens of bedrooms, scattered all over the Factory. With the Factory so large, there were times when it wasn't practical to go to the one he loved best, and with time so short, this time was one of those times.

Every one of his bedrooms was differently decorated, because sometimes it wasn't convenience that warranted change, it was change for change's sake that warranted change, and decorating differently did that. Being near the Inventing Room, this one contained antique inventions whose functions progress made obsolete, and by little one-off inventions so elaborate, that though they worked perfectly, they were never practical, and had never been put into use. Some, like the Perfume Bottles for Hummingbird Taming, were just for fun. The bed itself was a carved wooden replica of a Victorian era steam locomotive, with burnished metal trim.

Soon snuggled into his narrow gauge bed, Willy ran through the names of the spies he knew about, and the recipes they'd stolen. That didn't take long. Then he ran through the names of all the other than Oompa-Loompa people he had sleeping in his Factory tonight. When he reached the end of that second list, he ran through it again, and when he reached the end for the third time, he closed his eyes, rolled over, and nestled the smooth silk of the pillowcase against his smoother cheek. He hadn't felt this lonely for years.

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.__ Thanks for reading, and enjoy your day._

_Cockroaches and bugs of all kinds: Another good reason to wear gloves. **dionne dance**: How 'bout those collision lights? I can't believe Mr. Burton left them out. And I agree: I'd avoid colliding with Terence's bad side any way I could. __**Ifwecansparkle**: Thanks for reviewing. It's nice to know the last chapter had you on edge, and I hope you like this one._


	17. A Crowd At Breakfast

Terence hadn't expected to sleep so soundly, or for so long, and waking, he hadn't expected to find Willy gone. What he expected was a poke in the ribs from Willy's cane when he was ready to leave, accompanied by a 'follow me' to some less sensitive area of the Factory.

As quietly as he could, Terence turned his head toward the desk. The muted glow of dials and lights on nearby machines threw out enough light to see by. Sure enough. The hat, the cane, and the mangy coat were gone.

Yup, alone in the Inventing Room. It was an impressive thought, but Terence doubted he was really alone. Not in this room. Not knowing his friend. Testing his theory, Terence kicked at his mummy bag blanket, adjusting it on the chaise. Holding his breath, he heard a rustle of clothing in the area behind the table to his back. There's one. Next he sat up, as if about to swing his legs to the floor. He stopped in mid-swing, in time to hear a quiet step from the shadows behind the worktop, that froze a half-second after he did. At least two.

That was enough theory testing; Terence settled back. He wouldn't ruin their night any further with ruses that forced them to drop the covertness of their delicate duty. This chaise was more comfortable than it looked, and anyway, it was already almost six. Terence rolled over to make the most of the remaining opportunity for sleep.

* * *

><p>Nora took pride in being up before everyone, and most days she was. Getting the day underway was hers for the smoothing, and smooth she did, but on this particular morning Charlie had the wrinkles out ahead of her. With his arms folded on the dining table, fingers intertwined, Charlie was sitting staring at the bluish colored double doors of their suite as if they were a portal to another dimension.<p>

"Expecting Doctor Who, dear?"

His mother was making light of his being up—they enjoyed watching those re-runs on the telly together—but Charlie could tell it concerned her. He glanced back at the grandparents. They hadn't woken. "Something will happen today," he whispered.

* * *

><p>The trouble with staying in a bedroom not your preferred bedroom, was that the clothes you preferred were probably not going to be where you preferred them, and that, dagnabit, meant not there at all. This armoire must hold something, though. Willy began a slow rummage amongst its offerings.<p>

* * *

><p>When Terence opened them again, three pairs of eyes were staring into his. The thing was, he was lying down, they were standing, and all the eyes were on the same level.<p>

Terence blinked. "Good morning."

"Good morning," came the cheerful, chorused response.

Terence stayed at eye level. "There're three of you? You've been my chaperones?"

Hands covering mouths, three voices tittered together, eyes crinkled merrily at the corners. Then, using sidelong glances to get their timing right, they spoke in staggered sequence:

"We think that…"

"Surely…"

"Since you were early…"

"Being late now…"

"Would make you…"

"Surly."

Round-robin rhymes before breakfast. Terence sat up, extracting his feet from his mummy bag, swinging his legs to the floor. These were three Oompa-Loompas he'd never seen before, but they looked so much like Eshle they may as well be twins— not identical, but darn close.

"Do you get this from Mr. Wonka, or does he get it from you?"

The leader merely grinned. "We're here to show you where you can freshen up."

Terence cast a glance at his rumpled self. "Lord knows I could use it. Lead on."

* * *

><p>Nora turned to the cupboards and fridge in the little kitchen. "Something happens every day, dear."<p>

The question consuming her was what to make for breakfast. With so many choices, how do you choose? Nora saw flour, and eggs, and milk, and walnuts—those were whole, she'd have to chop them up—and cinnamon, and butter, and nectarines, and had an idea. She'd whip up something else for herself; if she ate more than a bite of what she planned for the others, in short order she'd look like that porky, Golden Ticket winning boy's mother, if not Augustine Glopp, or whatever-his-name-was, himself.

* * *

><p>Attached to the Inventing Room, the room his three guides showed Terence was more a utilitarian washing-up area than a proper bath—a place to deal with mishaps that required the immediate application of lots of water—but it would do. It had what you needed, and Terence made himself at home. Stepping out of the shower—a glorious experience: rivers of hot water, and pressure like a fire-hose!—an unexpected discovery had him unexpectedly speaking aloud: "These are not my clothes."<p>

Terence scanned the room, but there was no one in it to hear him. In the interval he'd taken to shower, the clothes he'd draped over the bench had transformed themselves into a tidy, folded pile. "They look like my clothes. Except for this one." Dropping the sumptuous towel he'd used to dry his hair, Terence took up the camouflage patterned jacket. "Right pattern, wrong color."

Putting down the jacket, Terence picked up the shoes. They were his—the low winter boots he'd come with—but they were as clean as he'd ever seen them. Putting them back, Terence scanned the room again. "Why am I talking to myself?"

* * *

><p>The black hat wouldn't work with this—well it would, black works with anything—but it wasn't what he wanted, and if black wasn't what he wanted today, what did he want? The coat he'd chosen didn't narrow down the choices much. Willy reached for a couple of top hats and held them up for comparison. Eshle stood by.<p>

"Which?"

Eshle looked at the choices and decided to pass. "Shall I have Terence meet you at the Buckets'?"

"Nah. He survived the Inventing Room. I'll meet him there." Willy tossed the hat in one hand on his bed, and put the other on his head.

* * *

><p>"Diving daisies, that smells delicious! What is it?" Grandpa George could barely contain himself, his nostrils flaring with anticipation.<p>

* * *

><p>"Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches."<p>

The three Oompa-Loompas scattered at Willy's approach, laughing as they went.

Terence slid off the chaise lounge to which they'd re-escorted him once he'd completed his toiletries, and where he was beginning to feel like he was under house arrest. "And a very pleasant good morning to you, too, Mr. Wonka."

Willy stopped short at the wrong name for no reason. "What?"

"Do I get my clothes back?"

"If you want them." Willy's exuberance was seeping away.

Terence wasn't noticing. "Can I keep the jeans? These feel great."

A little came back. "Keep it all. I thought you'd want a change."

"I wouldn't need a change if I'd spent the night at my flat."

Willy put his eyes on a spot just above Terence's left shoulder and a hundred miles behind it.

The snappishness Terence heard in his voice surprised him. He didn't mean it, but as hard as it sounded, it came from somewhere, and Terence needed to figure out the why, fast. Willy's reaction was not good.

Turning off the lights had brought Terence up and in as Willy had known, as surely as he knew his Factory, it would. He shouldn't have done it, but he'd thought Terence one of those, who, as he did, chose what he wanted, and wanted what he chose. Willy's stare intensified. Thinking what he'd just thought was no better than what he'd done, because now he wasn't being fair. What he'd done had been a manipulation Terence hadn't seen through, not a choice, and this was the result: Anger. If he'd dared to move, Willy would be twisting his walking stick, but pushing, he'd already found, had its price. It was Terence's move.

A lot had happened last night. Terence flew through it all, ticking off each point, not getting the glitch. Meanwhile, Willy had subsided to a stillness Terence wouldn't have guessed Willy could achieve. Willy knew what it was, and was waiting for him to catch on.

Terence, Willy could see, though he had said it, still didn't see it. Willy decided to help him, so with a tilt of his head, he stirred enough to look pointedly around the room, which was most certainly _not_ Terence's flat.

That's all it took. Terence got it, and to Willy's confusion, getting it started Terence laughing. "You think you suckered me in here."

"I did." Owning up to it, Willy stood taller.

"You think I didn't know that."

"You didn't."

"I did." Terence laughed one last time. "I came anyway. You needn't worry. I know what I'm doing. But this place really IS overwhelming. Not just the Chocolate Room. All of it. You were brilliant to put the Buckets in the most conventional corner of the Factory you have to start, and you have no idea how flattered I am you think you didn't need to take that precaution with me. But you really did. My flat is as familiar as a flat rock, and about as exciting. This place," he gestured with a flip of his wrist, "has flattened me. If I'm snappish, it's just sounding off to restore some balance."

Mulling, Willy shifted his walking stick to his other hand.

"Maybe not the best way to do that," Terence added.

A minute later, Willy shifted it back, and a minute after that, back again. "All that flat stuff. With flattery. That was pretty good."

Terence grinned. "Rhymes before breakfast. Between you and the Oompa-Loompas, it rubs off." He paused to let Willy regroup. "So. Are we gonna do this meeting or not?"

"Not or not," said Willy, leading the way to the Elevator, and deciding do to something genuine to make up for the manipulation Terence claimed not to mind. "By the way," he sang over his shoulder. "You asked. The names of the other spies I know about. Peabrain— nope, not that, I mean _Peabody_ Prodnose and Aneurysm— nope, nope, not that either— _Arthur_ Slugworth."

Terence hustled a quick step to catch up.

* * *

><p>"I think there's someone at the door," sang out Grandma Georgina, looking up from her plate of food at the sound of a sharp rap from that direction.<p>

There was no time to get over the shock of a knock that high on the door, or call out 'come in', because Willy Wonka had already swept into the room, Terence bringing up the rear, closing the door Willy abandoned as he strode in.

"Good morning Buckets, and other than Buckets!"

The chorus of responses was mixed—mostly Willys, some Mr. Wonkas, one Candyman—but it worked, and Willy was glad he'd taken Terence's advice about that being a good opener. His eyes darted around the room, taking it all in, as he sniffed the air like an elk testing the breeze during hunting season. Breakfast was well underway, and it smelled wonderful.

George and Georgina—who knew what their last name was?—were eating in bed, along with Joe and Josephine—known Buckets—with the paren Buckets and Charlie gathered 'round the table. Charlie was sitting at the far corner, facing the door, beaming away. Reaching into a pocket, Willy snapped a folding spoon into its open position and headed for him.

"May I?"

Delighted, Charlie nodded. Willy was like a whirlwind, and his coat today bowled you over.

Willy cut into the offering. What was on the plate looked like cinnamon buns, but were really a short stack of pancakes. Clever. It was an attractive presentation, drizzled with a nectarine butter glaze. Chopped walnuts gave it crunch, and Willy took another bite before licking the spoon clean, snapping it closed, and returning it to his pocket.

"Yours?" His piercing gaze fastened on Nora.

Dumbfounded, she could only nod, the pitcher of milk she'd been about to pour held in her hand, frozen in space.

"Very good," Willy said, only to cringe a second later, and then rush to her side. "My dear lady, let me help you." He took the pitcher of milk from her hand, putting it on the table, out of her reach. "Be very careful, don't move," he told her. "Quick, somebody get me something sturdy, and flat."

Charlie was up like a shot, returning with a notebook from his backpack.

"Perfect," Willy purred, taking it. "This won't take a second."

Nora wanted to move—she was sure it was a spider or other bug that might harm her—but Willy was as commanding as the captain of a ship that she stay still. She stayed still.

Willy quickly covered the bowl in front of her with the notebook, turned it upside down, laid it on the table, and simultaneously removed the notebook from underneath it. "There. All better."

Nora, uncomprehending, looked to Terence, who shrugged his shoulders in a how-would-I-know way. "That was granola," she protested, not seeing how she would get the bowl right side up without the cereal going everywhere. "I made it myself."

Willy was half-way to the bed. "That was pencil shavings, dear lady. We don't eat pencil shavings here." He whirled. "We have a watcher, everyone, and that means trouble. Does anyone want out?"

The family exchanged glances, murmuring.

"A watcher?"

"A what?"

"Trouble?"

"Trouble, toil and…"

"Out?"

"Does he mean leave?"

"No!" Charlie's voice rose above the others, and they fell silent.

After a few more glances, Noah spoke. "Charlie speaks for all of us. A watcher?"

"Someone with an unsavory legacy taking more interest than they should in the affairs of this Factory." Sighing, Willy sat on the edge of the bed at Georgina's knees, his shoulders slumping. "That happens to me, and if it happens you're with me, it'll happen to you."

"It happens we'll stick," said Noah again, to nods all around.

"We will," chimed in Charlie.

Willy, his wan smile soon fading, crossed his arms in the Oompa-Loompa salute.

In the silence that followed, Georgina, smiling warmly at Willy, held out her hands. "I love rainbows."

Returning her smile, the slump went out of Willy's shoulders. He took her hands in his, holding them gently.

So much for denying himself human contact, Nora thought. It's just all up to him.

Still holding Georgina's hands Willy rose from the bed, dropping them so he could turn for her. When he had, he reached for her hands again, sinking back down. "I'm a double rainbow today." And he was. His coat began with red at the center and marched around each side of him with vertical stripes in the order and colors of the rainbow, until they met at the center of his back, in a double stripe of deep violet. His top hat matched the back center stripe. "Do you still love dragonflies?"

Georgina looked into his face for a long time, and Willy waited for as long as it took for her to answer. "I'll love candy land. Then I'll love dragonflies."

Willy smiled with his eyes and squeezed her hands. "Good."

"Hey!" The quiet in the room was making George nervous, and he hated not knowing what was going on right next to him. "If you're talking about another one of those nymph-y thingies, _I_ love dragonflies!"

Willy's smile turned sly, then saccharin, and he dropped Georgina's hands, turning to George. "Then double good, because I made this for you, Grouchy-man." Willy drew the box Terence had seen last night on the worktop out of another pocket, and opened it. George reached for it, but Willy drew back. "You can't see them, but there are strings on this one."

George put his hand under the blanket.

"Are you any good at retail?" Willy was serious now, speaking to George as an equal.

George had never seen this side of Willy before, and he knew he was seeing the man who made this Factory run. He nodded, remembering his younger days, working in a shop that sold and repaired clocks. Heck! He could still repair clocks.

"Would you be willing to run Terence's shop? In light of developments, I want the house moved here ASAP."

George nodded again.

"Then this is for you." Willy made a tower of his curled fingers with his thumb on top. He put the candy on that, and with a flick of his thumb, it sailed into the air.

George had no trouble catching it while Georgina and the others looked on. Georgina was smiling, and so was Willy. A real smile.

The candy looked different, and George turned it over. It looked— brittle. He popped it in his mouth. It felt nothing like the first one; that had been shiny with a glaze of sugar over a soft, melting core. This one was all hard edges, stacked against each other. But it wasn't. When he was sure the brittleness would cut his tongue, the edges melted away, doing no harm at all, the crackling layers collapsing harmlessly against each other, until at the center it was the same as the first one: A taste at first sharp and bitter, giving way to a glow inside his body better than the sweetest thing he had ever known. This candy should come in a fountain: it felt like youth. "When do you want me to start, Mr. Wonka?"

"Willy"

"Mr. Willy."

Willy sighed, contemplating the ceiling. This old dog's progress would be measured in inches. He grinned when out of the corner of his eye, he caught Georgina's elbow caught in George's ribs.

"Close enough." Willy jumped off the bed. "You, Mr. George," he pointed at the man's heart, "start today. Terence, the first thing you do today is show him the drill."

Terence saluted. "That will take all of ten minutes."

Willy couldn't care less. "You," he pointed to Charlie, "go to school. You," it was Noah's turn, "take him there, and then do your toothpaste factory thing. Terence will see Charlie gets home." The rainbow turned to Grandpa Joe. "You take care of these two," he pointed to the grandmothers, "because you," he wheeled to face Nora, "will be working with me. Today is the day we pick the home site, and you all," his hand included everyone else, "are otherwise occupied. Too bad." For a split second, Willy stuck out his tongue. "Unless," he turned to Charlie, his voice losing its commanding tone, "you want me to wait, Charlie, until you can pick with us."

Charlie was squirming with glee. He _knew _something would happen today, but not this good. This was the Willy he knew, and Willy was going to show his family the Factory. Finally. Charlie wasn't going to mess that up, no way! "No, don't wait. Mum will help you pick out a great spot."

Willy beamed. "Then we're done. Any questions? Comments? Additions? No? Then good. People leaving, get your things together and I'll see you off at the hall. Bye for now!" And like a leprechaun making off with his pot of gold, Willy was out the door.

Stunned faces looked from one to the other at the abrupt departure.

"Darn," said Terence.

They all, except Charlie, turned to him as if he were the Rosetta Stone of decoding Willy Wonka. Terence stared back at them. "I didn't get a chance to ask him why he mentioned Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches this morning."

Charlie smiled and tucked into his pancakes. They were even good cold.

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.__ Thanks for reading, please review, and enjoy your day._

_And with Arthur, 1971 creeps in. Thank you,** dionne dance**, for your review. Those candies in the vial were vile and so were the bugs. Thank you, __**Ifwecansparkle**, for your review. Friendships are my favorites._


	18. Grate, No Barrels

Nora's fingers were creeping into her mouth, and all Terence could think of was Willy wearing gloves so as not to chew his fingers off with anxiety. That reminded Terence he was hungry, as evidently Willy's idea of a breakfast meeting was all meeting and no breakfast.

"Is he joking? Work with him?" Nora hissed. Charlie was listening, and Nora choked off whatever she meant to say next. It was apprehension not dislike driving her dismay, but she knew the hint of either would disappoint Charlie.

"You'll be fine," assured Terence, scouting the cupboards for something flat. Finding a cookie sheet, he laid it against the edge of the table, scooting the overturned bowl on to it. "If the table gets scratched, it's his own fault."

The table was fine.

"Aha!" Terence beamed as he turned the bowl upright. "Do you want this? Is there more?" He looked down the table at the pitcher of milk. "Can you pass that, please?"

Noah obliged.

"Because if you don't want this, Nora, I'll have it. I'm starved." Holding the pitcher of milk, Terence surveyed the crowd in the sudden silence. "Sorry, poor choice of expression."

George pooh-poohed the gaffe with a wave of his hand. "No offense, we're doing better now. If I'm going to work with you, I need some clothes."

"Well, not with me," said Terence, picking up a spoon, "but clothes are a good idea."

"I'd bet you'd find what you need in the closet in the bedroom Willy thought you'd use," offered Noah. "And look at you, Terence— I see you've been subjected to the ol' switcheroo, too. Let your jacket out of your sight, did you? I thought it was just us, but I've never seen a camo pattern that color."

"Me either," agreed Terence.

"That makes me," Noah waved his hand in the air, "maybe all of us— feel less singled out." Unfolding himself from the table, Noah took his plate over to the sink.

Nora, having retrieved the remaining granola from a container in one of the cupboards, knit her brows. "Is that why you sleep with that old sweater under your pillow, dear?"

"Sure is. I've had that sweater since we met."

Nora smiled. "I think you were wearing it."

"Sure, sure, and I think I was," Noah smiled back. "At the rate, our clothes are being replaced— I figure that's the only way I'll keep it. It's seen better days, but it's my favorite."

"S' 'ell 'im."

"Please don't talk with your mouth full, Terence," pouted Grandma Josephine. "It pains me enough Mr. Wonka only knocks once and barges right in, without your piling public mastication on top of all his bad examples."

Grandpa Joe gave her hand a pat. "This is his Factory, dear."

"Terence's?" laughed Georgina.

"You're right," crowed George from the other room. "I've got my choice in here. And they're not weird! They're normal. Mostly." He held an Ascot in his hand, considering wearing it.

Giving Georgina a poke with her foot under the blanket, Josephine turned away with a sniff, shaking off Joe's hand. "You know I mean Mr. Wonka. And that's why I didn't mention the cereal, or the rude way he left. I'll be glad when we get our house back."

Listening to the ruckus, Charlie bet Willy would be more glad than they were when the family got its house back. "We better get going if I'm to get to school on time. Are you ready, Dad?"

"Charlie's right." Nora wolfed a few bites, and turned to Grandpa Joe, who nodded before temptation made her speak with her mouth full.

"I'll tidy up. You have fun. Pick a nice spot. Come on, George," Grandpa Joe hollered. "Everyone's waiting for you."

George appeared nattily dressed and Charlie was out the door, crying, "We'll take the Elevator!"

"Must we?" Nora muttered, putting her bowl in the sink.

"We must," smiled Terence, offering her his arm, only to have Noah sweep him aside.

"That's my privilege, old chap."

Terence acquiesced with a bow, and Nora laughed at the attention, wrapping her fingers intimately around Noah's arm from beneath. "Shall we?"

* * *

><p>This wasn't a morning for eating—pains aside—it was a morning for thinking… possibly planning. Having made, as he did every morning, the round of his house, Dr. Wonka found himself in his surgery, at his work table, rolling the events of the night around in his head. He'd been angry then. Hell, why not admit it? He'd been enraged. Anger makes for mistakes, and rage is worse. His head was cooler now. Cool heads prevail. Shall I make a move? Is there a move I need to make? Turning that thought over, Dr. Wonka ran his fingers across the newspaper he'd laid next to the scrapbook.<p>

* * *

><p>Willy was there well before them, and they found him pacing to and fro before the Factory doors like a pirate trying to measure out the steps to a misplaced treasure. When he saw them, he snapped his pocket watch closed with a determined click. "Where ya been, people?"<p>

"Changing," piped up George, eyeing Willy up and down.

Willy had obviously been doing the same thing, because the rainbow coat was gone, replaced by a silver frock coat so pale it was almost white, like the inside of an oyster's shell, shot through with diagonal periwinkle hairline stripes so fine they only served to seem to change the color of the coat with the changes of the light hitting it. It positively shimmered.

Nora took in the periwinkle top hat that matched the periwinkle stripes in the coat, and the periwinkle gloves that matched them both, more than convinced that only Willy Wonka could pull off wearing a look like that, but pull it off he did, in spades.

Willy hefted his cane at the scrutiny, then dismissed all the eyes on him in favor of Charlie's. "Don't stray, stay till you're met, and don't speak to strangers who speak to you first."

"That'll be easy," answered Charlie with a laugh. "Strangers don't speak to me. They don't even notice me."

The laugh wasn't what Willy wanted to hear. Not at all. Stepping forward, Willy took the edges of Charlie's coat lightly in his fingers, sliding his hands down the fabric beside the zipper as he dropped to one knee before Charlie, stopping when their eyes were level. When they were, Willy curled his fingers around the fabric he was holding until his grip threatened to crush it.

Charlie didn't feel a thing, but he could see it. The look in the amethyst eyes and grip conveyed what the words had not. Charlie didn't know what Willy feared, but he knew now it wasn't a game, and whatever it was, it scared Willy, for real. "I won't Mr. Wonka— Willy."

Willy's smile was as instantaneous as the release of his grip and the leap to his feet. "Then wonderful, we're all set. Anything else?"

Terence had a question, but he wasn't going to ask it now. The others shook their heads, and began to file out. Hanging back, to delay him, Nora took hold of Terence's arm.

"I'm serious," she whispered. "Any advice?"

Terence smiled. "You mean 'how to's? Rules won't do you any good— there aren't any. Use an algorithm instead: Pretend you like him, and assume he's doing the best he can."

Nora dropped Terence's arm. After last night, she wouldn't have to pretend.

* * *

><p>In his wildest imagination Dr. Wonka had never considered Willy would consider moving a house. On the other hand, The Boy had been privy to the firsthand example of a master, in whose footsteps he could follow. Dr. Wonka's shrunken chest puffed with pride for a moment, thinking what a coup that move had been, but he soon sagged again in his chair. That move hadn't worked out <em>exactly<em> as he'd planned. That was the trouble with The Boy— he never did what was expected of him, and that went all the way back to his mother expecting him.

Dr. Wonka took a minute to unclench his teeth. He knew how awful that was; only one step away from grinding! Oh, my God, the horror! Confound that boy and that memory to drive him to this! Shuddering, Dr. Wonka pushed pent-up breath through his teeth in disgust. Anger wouldn't do now. Practical was what he needed— dispassionate distancing.

The paper beckoned, and Dr. Wonka reached for it. Whose house was moving? The name, to his annoyance, slipped his mind. His finger found the line. Bucket. No names. Not a distinguished family. Dr. Wonka prided himself on knowing all the names of the distinguished families in this town by heart. Wonka had been one of them until The Boy had trashed it with candy… and eccentricity… and that wretched… chocolate. My God, even thinking the word left a bad taste in his mouth. Should he stand by? Do nothing? Cause trouble?

Dr. Wonka's eyes drifted to the wall of clippings, not seeing any of them.

* * *

><p>Nora stood in the hall, unsure what to do next. The others had left, and Willy was staring at the door in a trance. There was no one to give her a hint—not even one Oompa-Loompa—but Charlie had told her the Chocolate Room, their home's new home, was at the other end of this hall. Perhaps if she started down that way, Willy would join her.<p>

Back in the present, Willy pivoted to see Nora half-way down the hall. So like a paren, no patience, going their own way without bothering to consult… Head cocked, Willy crossed a leg with his toe resting on the floor, his right hand resting on the walking stick he held out to his side. No point in calling out… parens don't listen. No problem. He'd wait and she'd figure it out. The locked door that made that a dead-end would do it if nothing else did.

Nora turned and walked backwards, checking, only to see Willy had taken up a stance similar to the one she'd seen Dr. Grant use. It had meant 'I'm waiting' when Dr. Grant used it, and odds were it meant the same thing here. She retraced her steps to Willy's smile.

"That _is _a way to the Chocolate Room," Willy said silkily, as she approached, flipping the walking stick in his hand to let the end rest on his shoulder, "but it's not the way we're taking today. Today we're taking the scenic route, because today we want a bird's-eye view. We are, after all, picking a home site, and home sites are best picked from the air."

"The air? Do you mean we're using the Elevator?"

Willy's laugh was infectious. "No, dear lady, not if that idea pales you the way it does. But we'll still be pretty high up. Come on."

Nora stayed rooted, the earlier scene at the door haunting her. "Is Charlie in danger?"

Willy stiffened. "I wouldn't allow him out if he were."

"I trust your judgement."

Something inscrutable flicked across Willy's face. Wordless, he turned away. Nora followed.

* * *

><p>The clippings… Dr. Wonka was seeing them in their frames now. They were the way to go… one last fling. The first step: enlist the aid of his trusted allies. They'd been oh, so helpful in the past, and they were oh, so much younger than he was; so spry and able to gad about, gathering the facts he needed. The question was, who to call first? Prodnose? Slugworth? Ficklegruber? All three? All three!<p>

Sense intervened. The dream of those glory days faded, and the energy left him. Dr. Wonka wondered if he even had their numbers anymore.

* * *

><p>The scenic route was anything but: it involved a spiral staircase in the vestibule opposite the Great Glass Elevator's port, a myriad of narrow passageways with no windows—but with multiple turns that had Nora completely turned around—and many more staircases.<p>

Willy dashed along without a care, but every time Nora thought she'd lose sight of him completely, he'd slow and let her catch up, even if the slowing was never enough to let her fully catch her breath. When she was sure they must have traveled to the other side of the Factory and back three times over, he stopped at a nondescript door, opened it, then barred her way with his walking stick. She looked from the stick to the eyes that didn't quite meet hers.

"It's a catwalk."

Nora nodded.

Willy shifted nervously. "It's narrow and the handrails are Oompa-Loompa height."

"I'll be careful," said Nora, making mental notes.

With the magic words spoken, the walking stick was withdrawn, and Willy ushered Nora in, following after her along the catwalk. "This," he said, when they had crossed, "is not the place. This place, is the beginning."

The beginning was a room not overly wide, but many stories high, filled by a tapering rock covered mountain structure, on the edge of whose flat top they were standing. In the middle of the flat top was a pool of melted chocolate as black as obsidian, but without the shine. The chocolate bubbled up from a fountain in the middle of the pool, flowed outward, and escaped the pool through a channel of smooth rock that _was_ obsidian, polished to a high shine. The channel curved back around on itself, becoming a spiral of rapids descending along the ever-widening mountainside.

"Shall we?"

Willy was indicating steps cut beside the chocolate stream and Nora nodded. Following him, she noticed a bubbling fountain of a semi-transparent, sluggish fluid joining the chocolate river from a polished quartz tributary channel.

"Sugar," said Willy, with sparkling eyes. "Only partially melted."

Opposite that was a free-flowing steamy whiteness that traveled along a polished moonstone tributary.

"Milk. I'm making milk chocolate at the moment."

"Are these stones solid?"

"Nah, they're veneers, and this mountain is hollow, and filled with tanks filled with the things you see bubbling up," Willy laughed. "But they sure do look good. Everything here was plain old stainless steel once— vats actually, but that was boring, and I like to tweak things. This looks so much nicer."

Nora nodded agreement.

The rapids continued their swirling, churning, frothing course until a few spirals later, the chocolate gathered again in a larger pool. Oompa-Loompas dipped beakers into the mixture, testing it as it found the channel out of this pool, and hurried on its way down another set of rapids, with more tributaries joining in, filling ever bigger pools.

"We can skip most of this," Willy told her over his shoulder, as he led her over a shorter catwalk, through a door and down more corridors. "The Oompa-Loompas make adjustments as necessary, and it repeats until I have almost the flavor I want, and then we have this." He opened another door and stepped inside. This time, no catwalk was necessary.

Growing from the crevices, buttercups dotted the unpolished stone they stood on. Willy bent down and picked one, popping it into his mouth. Nora followed his example, delighting in the buttery, crispy lightness that tickled her taste buds. The branches of eight enormous willow trees hung over a huge pool of tawny brown chocolate, four on each side, dripping sap from some of their branches into the melted chocolate below.

Willy waited for Nora to say something, but Nora waited for him, barely resisting the urge for another buttercup.

Willy smiled. "Ha. We're below the tree line. But these are not real willow trees and that is not sap. Those look-like-sap drippings are some of the proprietary ingredients that make my chocolate my chocolate, and I'd tell you what they are, but then I'd have to kill you."

"Then please don't tell me," answered Nora in a flash, and so saying, she stuck her fingers in her ears and began chanting: "la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la— I can't hear you!" until she saw Willy giggle. Charlie said Willy giggled all the time, and Charlie told the truth, but Willy giggling wasn't Nora's experience. But here it was— Willy giggling. Nora stopped her chanting and turned back to the pool of chocolate. She'd heard Willy happily string more sentences together today than she'd imagined possible, and whatever he might say, a man wearing periwinkle wasn't intimidating. This might actually work.

Crouching, Nora looked further downstream. "There's another fall below this pool and then it's flat. Why is there a grate across the arch at the end of the flat part, and what's that sound?"

"That's a grate to prevent barrels— the Oompa-Loompas get up to all sorts of mischief— and the other is part of what we came to see." Willy tossed his walking stick an inch or three in the air and caught it. "Come on."

* * *

><p>"Come on," Dr. Wonka roared aloud, to break the spell of the past that had overtaken him. "Arise! Don't let the fools drag you down! Find those numbers."<p>

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.__ Thanks for reading, please review, and enjoy your day._

_**dionne dance**: Thanks for your review. I liked that part too, because it threw Nora for such a loop. She was so sure. __**Ifwecansparkle**: Thanks for your review, particularly your reference to the references and your fondness for the interactions._


	19. Bested, Times Two

_Before we begin, take it from me: Mr. Prodnose and company have terrible potty mouths._

* * *

><p>Dr. Wonka found the numbers exactly where he'd thought he'd find them. The results didn't please him. "Bee, Bee, BEEP!" the phone screeched, in a frequency Dr. Wonka could no longer hear well.<p>

"The number you have dialed is no longer in service. If you think you've reached this recording in error, please hang up, and dial again."

"You're the error," Dr. Wonka muttered, when it happened for the third time. He slammed the phone back into its cradle like a tug slamming into a dock. How dare those lice change their number without informing him! Sickened, he got smart. He did some research. Punching the numbers for the fourth time, his fingers jangled the ringer in his antiquated phone.

* * *

><p>The morning was crawling and Charlie was drifting. His teacher had already frowned at him twice—Charlie was usually attentive—and Charlie could tell if it happened again, there'd be words spoken.<p>

To go unnoticed, Charlie slouched at his desk, but then thought better of it. Slouching made him look like he didn't care. He sat up again, but now the squirming was getting him stares. Charlie folded his hands and put on his most serious face. His teacher shook his head at some of the differences he saw in his usually decorous student, but moved on with what he was saying.

Charlie did care, but life had gotten so different, so fast, it was hard to keep up. He'd always loved coming to school before; school was a place to get warm, and learn things, but now the Factory was warmer, and the things he wanted to learn were all there. It was driving him crazy wondering what his Mum thought of the Chocolate Room. And what about Willy— this morning? Terence hadn't let them leave all at once. When they'd reached the sheltering passageway and small gate in the righthand pier supporting the main gate, he'd made them wait until there was a lull in the foot traffic, and then sent his Dad and him out first. Charlie had looked back, but Grandpa George and Terence still hadn't left as he lost sight of the gates. That was when Charlie asked a question.

'Dad, why is Mr. Wonka afraid?'

A corner of his dad's mouth lifted. 'I thought you were calling him Willy.'

Dad should already know this. 'Sometimes he's Mr. Wonka.'

'Sure is. Sometimes.'

Charlie smiled—for no reason as far as his classmates sitting beside him could tell—but to Charlie's amusement, for the next few steps, his Dad had swung both their hands in an arc, like the lower half of a Ferris wheel circuit, till Charlie had laughed.

'I wouldn't say he's afraid, Charlie. More like cautious.'

'About what?'

'Changes.'

The conversation kept coming back. Should he worry? About changes? Charlie tried listening to the teacher again, but thoughts of his Mum discovering the Chocolate Room without him crowded that out. He should have made them wait.

* * *

><p>Willy had taken Nora down steps that lead to the edge of the wide, flat section she'd noticed, and it was so wide, there was precious little edge to stand on: the melted chocolate flowing past them dominated the space.<p>

"Do edges bother you?"

Looking into the swirling eddies of thick chocolate—overcoming its own viscosity to flow quickly, dangerously—Nora had no idea what to make of Willy's question. Bother her? Edges? This edge? The edge of this lovely, churning, sweet-smelling murkiness? So unlike the murkiness that year after year churned her stomach at the edge of town? The edge of that foul smelling dump, with winter making the smell bearable, and winter making the living there unbearable? That edge? Or the other edges? The edge of starvation; the edge of freezing to death; or day after day, watching your family failing before your eyes, showing you the edge of despair? Those edges?

Like the chocolate at her feet, Nora's eyes smoldered glassy and wide, her mouth slack.

"NOT FIGURATIVELY."

A blur of periwinkle snapped before her eyes, Willy's fingers, the blur disappearing as he moved away, carefully keeping himself between her and the moving chocolate. Their shoulders overlapped in the narrow space, not touching. He smelled of cinnamon and chocolate, savory and sweet, and— cloves? Nora breathed in the soothing scent. Her eyes re-focused and she moved toward the wall, back from the mesmerizing flow. "How…" Not even a whisper.

"I know the look." Whispered back.

"I'm sorry…"

"…Don't be." Willy glanced at her keenly, then lowered his eyes. "I meant, do ledges bother you? Do they make you dizzy?"

"No."

"Then goody. Onward."

Moving away, he led her on a curving path to a door in the wall that shared the grate, and—just like that—the moment was behind them.

* * *

><p>"If you don't take this call, I quit." The snap of popping gum punctuated the proclamation, followed by slurpy chewing.<p>

Prodnose pushed the papers on his desk into an untidy pile only to spread them out again, protesting. Dangling the quitting— what a bitch; he knew she didn't mean it. "Tell 'im I'm in a meeting Schnookems, you know that, we've talked about this— I'm too busy to take calls from crackpots."

So far, the morning was a disaster.

"Don't gimme that crap, Honeypea, I can't take this guy anymore." The gum snapped again as she shifted her weight to her other foot and sat her skinny bum on the edge of the desk.

Threatening quitting was the high point of her day. Proddy-waddy expected her to quit when they married, but she knew better. She'd pried off ball-and-chain number three courtesy of Secretaryville, and that wasn't gonna happen to _her_ till she was good and ready. The bangles hanging from her wrist clanked together out of tune, as she lifted the phone from its cradle, her manicured, be-ringed fingers poised over the button that would open the line.

"He's been calling every ten minutes for the last hour, Sweetie-weetie, and he ain't gonna take 'no' for an answer." The wheedle left her voice for a hard edge. "I'm sick of it. You get rid of 'im."

Prodnose retrieved his face from his meaty hands, taking the outstretched phone. "Who'd ya say?" The only place he paid any real attention to her was in bed, and even there, his attention was mostly on himself.

"Wonka." The gum snapped emphatically as she got to her feet.

The blood left Prodnose's face like water separating from oil. "Willy?" he squeaked.

"Doctor." Snap.

The sting of seeing her glory in her scorn at his discomfort bucked him up. "You're lucky it ain't the son, sweetie-pie, cuz if it was we'd be out of business." A smug smile accompanied the wave of his fingers. "Say 'bye-bye' to all those pretty things! ...Now get outta here and get back to work."

"Way ahead o' you, Honeypea," she tossed over her shoulder, with a dismissive flip of her bottled tawny hair and studio tanned hand, as she sauntered from the room. "Way ahead o' you."

She slammed the door with a force that reverberated along the hall, and Slugworth raised his head. Roddy and his nitwit child-bride— what was up with them this time?

Prodnose held the phone for a minute, collecting himself. He'd thought Wonka was dead—hadn't heard from the creep in years—but apparently he could file that under 'no such luck'. He took a deep breath and punched the button.

"Dr. Wonka. What a pleasant surprise."

"Peabody. So good to have you finally on the line. I trust your meeting was satisfactory?"

Prodnose grimaced at the 'Peabody'. No one called him that. He hated it. But this was definitely Dr. Wonka. The dulcet tones and measured speech could be no one else. Prodnose felt sick. "Why, yes— yes it was. Ah, to what do I owe the honor?"

Slugger had cracked the door, his beaky nose and narrow, wispy-haired head peeking 'round it. Prodnose gestured him in, and put the phone on speaker. Wonka was droning on about a house being moved, and using buckets to take another stab at taking down his son.

'Is he crazy?' Slugger was mouthing the words, but the dread behind them fairly shrieked. He felt like a boa constrictor was running amok in his large intestine. Prodnose, listening to Wonka wax eloquent about surveillance schemes, felt the same way, but he made calming gestures telling Slugger to sit. This was a nightmare. Slugworth pointed to the phone and made throat-cutting gestures to end the call.

Gestures weren't getting it done on either side.

'Sit down.' It was Roddy mouthing words now. Giving up, Slugworth crumpled into the chair.

Dr. Wonka droned on, and finally to a halt. "I'm counting on you. Like last time." He heard nothing. "Hello?"

Prodnose sat up. "Still here. I'd love to help you, but it's not old times anymore. I'm not even in town anymore."

Dr. Wonka chuckled. "Do tell. And you and Mr. Slugworth are partners, aren't you? Prodworth's Confections, I believe you call it?" The morning's research that had yielded the phone number had raked up a good deal more information as well.

"That's right. Mr. Slugworth is with me now." 'Say something' he mouthed at Slugger.

"Dr. Wonka." It was all Slugger could mange. Surprises threw him.

"How fortunate for me, I have you both. It saves me a call— of course you should both benefit. As for the move you made, it's nothing a few hours drive won't set right. I'll put you up at my abode." Enjoying this, Wilbur's smile would stop a clock. "In Willy's old room, if you like."

Slugger shivered.

Prodnose rubbed down the goosebumps on his arm, wishing the hair standing up on the back of his neck would take the hint. "Very kind of you Doctor, but I'm afraid we're too, ah— too busy for any new projects."

"Yup, got our hands full we do," seconded Slugworth. "Too busy!"

The line was quiet. And then Dr. Wonka's sinister baritone filled the room. "Let's take off the gloves, shall we? This isn't a request. You owe me. I told you what to do to put Willy out of business, and it worked exactly the way I said it would. It cleared the field and made you rich. Everything you have, you owe to me."

Livid, Prodnose was on his feet, blood coursing to his face. "Why you little shit— you bled us dry with your take! We made _you_ rich! Help you now? Fucking eat shit and die! If you were on fire, I wouldn't cross the street to piss on you!"

"Roddy! Get a grip!"

"Yes, Roddy, get a grip." The even tone of Dr. Wonka's voice dropped the temperature in the room ten degrees. "You and your cohorts were the industry leaders, for years. Using my son's recipes. There was plenty of money— for all of us."

Roddy's finger hovered over the button that would cut the connection. His heart was racing, his breathing rapid and shallow. Sweat seeped in the folds of his clothing. Fuck this man for making him lose control this way. Prodnose slowed his breathing and took a deep breath.

"Well grip this old man— your sinking, shitass scheme didn't work, did it? A few good years for us, and your son came back— changed all the recipes with newer, better ones and put _us_ out of business. D'you remember that part? The part where he got the better of you? And your stupid plan? The part where he's the most respected, envied, RICHEST candy maker in the _world_?"

"And the biggest froot-loop," muttered Slugworth.

Prodnose scowled. "With a freakin' Oompa-Doompa-Loompa work force _he'd a never found if it weren't for YOU_— undercutting all of us FOREVER, you useless jerk!" His blood pounding, Prodnose slowed himself again. "Your problem, asshole," he spat, "is you can't stand that your biggest achievement in life is gonna be fathering him." Prodnose had an epiphany. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? You can't stand that, can you?— Can't stand that your son gets the better o' you, _does_ bett'r 'an you." Almost dancing, his grin split his face. "What's a matter, _Doc_? You afraid little Willy's gonna do somethin' _else_ bett'r 'an his big 'ol bad daddy? Well, my money's on him and you can go suck."

The handset hit the cradle with a crack as Roddy pressed the button that severed the call, and fell back into his chair.

"That's telling him," said Slugworth.

The adrenaline kept Roddy's grin plastered on his face. "Like we have a choice."

Slugger laughed. "Yeah. Like we have a choice. If we owe what we have to the Doc, we owe what we keep to Willy. That sucker's got us right where he wants us."

"Yeah." Roddy joined in the laugh. "Here we are. The two of us. Crap making crap."

"Yeah." Slugger paused. "There's a market for crap. But Wonka ain't gonna get his hands dirty with it."

"So he leaves it to us."

Slugworth pursed his lips, nodding. "And watches us like a hawk."

Prodnose picked up a pencil. It was true. Whenever Prodworth's Confections introduced anything of quality, Willy undersold them, or created something so wonderful, it totally eclipsed their soon forgotten work. They couldn't escape the niche, but it was a truce they could live with. It was justice really: they'd tried to take everything from Willy Wonka once, but when he came back he'd rewarded the effort by giving them something in return: a decent living, two towns over, and the reputation for making the worst candy anyone would still consider eating. It was a high price—their dreams of confectionary glory dashed—and a life sentence, but the 'World's Worst' reputation aside, they'd survived. Their own choices had put them here, and they knew it. Messing with Willy Wonka— it was a game they weren't gonna lose again, because now they knew better than to play.

Knowing he should get back to his office, Slugworth stayed on. Dr. Wonka's call had made him oddly reflective, as indeed was the ever practical Prodnose. Just now he was tapping the eraser end of his pencil up and down on the blotter.

"We could quit," said Prodnose between taps.

Slugworth leaned back. Over the nasty surprise, his bearings were solid again. "And lose our living? Besides, Wonka wouldn't care if we quit."

"That's what Ficklegruber did."

"Which is why he can live in the shadow of that Factory. Big deal."

The pencil tapped back and forth. "You know he didn't want to take that recipe."

"You going soft on me, Roddy?" Slugworth leaned toward the desk with narrowed eyes. "Don't forget he caught us in the act, old pal. If we didn't make him use that recipe we could never trust him. Not much of a future in that."

Prodnose nodded. Slugger could be cold… way cold, and then he laughed. Slugger should have taken the ice cream recipe.

"What's so funny?" The distrust was blatant.

"I was just thinking. Someone ought to warn Wonka his father's gunning for him again."

Like the stick insect he resembled, Slugworth crawled to his feet. "Knock yourself out," he said as he left. "It won't be me."

Prodnose hefted his pencil and reached for last week's sales report. It wouldn't be him, either.

* * *

><p>Riffraff. That's what those two cowards were… bloody riffraff. No surprise there. Always had been.<p>

Dr. Wonka stroked his Van Dyke. It'd been genius—his genius!—that had got those two louts into the Factory while The Boy was away in India, and they were idiots not to see they still owed him. Once inside, it had been so easy for them to steal the secret recipes. So easy! Everyone left at the Factory thought it was someone else's job to guard them, and the only person who _really_ cared about them was off gallivanting on a fool's errand, continents away. The whole plan—his plan!—was like taking candy from a baby. The best part was The Boy's dejected disappointment, when he returned to find his recipes stolen, and his Factory in chaos. Dr. Wonka sneered. After daring to disappoint his father, Willy deserved it.

With a merry twinkle in his eye, Dr. Wonka rubbed his hands together, and would have laughed aloud, but for the pain in his lower back. His eyes fluttered to his hanging shrine, and his face went soft with pleasure. The gormless Boy reacting by closing his Factory was sinful sweetness Dr. Wonka had savored for years. Though he took the credit for it, he hadn't expected that: The Boy walking away from his life's work. Not the move I'd have made! Oh, dear me! No! I'd have made everyone working for me suffer, while I hunted the culprits down! Ah, well. Good times those, and that's what made today's call so disappointing. Riffraff had handled the dirty work then… who better than riffraff to handle the dirty work now?

Staring at the silent black hole before him that was the telephone, Dr. Wonka deliberated. Those two weren't the only louts. There was always Ficklegruber. Feckless Ficklegruber! His spine was well-known for having the same steely qualities as a pond reed in a gale. Like the pond scum he was. Bullying him into partaking of the current agenda should be as easy as plucking a rotten tooth. And Ficklegruber lived in town. So much the better.

Dr. Wonka obliterated the number for Prodworth's on the pad, and dialed the next.

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, please review, and I hope you enjoyed this._

**_dionne dance_**_: The color— I haven't mentioned it_ _yet, but I will. Thanks, as ever, for your support. _**_07kattho_**_: Thanks for your review. It's always good to hear from you._


	20. A Masterpiece

The newspapers had written about it, and Nora had read what they had to say. Charlie had talked about it, and she'd listened to every word. But to sell more of them, newspapers hyped whatever they wrote about, and little boys—even thoughtful little boys like her Charlie—are easily impressed. Their suite was nothing you wouldn't expect to find in any run of the mill five-star hotel, and the parts of the Factory Nora had seen to this point did nothing to give away the wonders she hadn't. Stacked together, these facts and perceptions meant Nora wasn't prepared in the slightest for what she was seeing now.

Standing on a curving ledge that looked across it, Nora stood almost one hundred feet above it, glimpsing a place more magical than any dump could dare to promise by its opposition. The sight before her was as splendid a rendering of a garden in Paradise as her mind could hope to imagine. Bedazzled, she almost forgot to breathe.

But this was only a glimpse. There was further Nora could go. She could walk out to the edge of the curving platform and see it all. The growing river they'd followed from its beginning fell to her right in a thirty meter drop—the lately famous Chocolate Fall—but there was a knee-high wall ahead of her.

Nora looked back. Having ushered her through, Willy hadn't followed. He was standing next to the door, inscrutable with the brim of his top hat shadowing his face. The corner of Nora's mouth turned up. Useful hat, that. With the sounds of the fall, as far apart as they were, it was futile to think she'd be heard. Pointing to herself, Nora made a wavy motion with her fingers towards the edge.

With a tiny nod and the barest of smiles, Willy made the same little wavy motion back.

Receiving the go-ahead, with measured steps, Nora advanced to the edge of the platform, her desire to stretch out the suspense setting the pace. She'd only see this sight for the first time once, and she wanted to remember it forever.

The vista was more than Nora had hoped for. Devouring it with hungry eyes, she surveyed every detail, discovering the enormous room held secrets she still couldn't see, even from this commanding vantage. With a soft smile and glistening eyes, Nora counted the loveliness before her as welcome nourishment for her soul— the fullness of a future she could snuggle into, and the discarding of a past she could shrug away, like the withered specter this move had made it. And just like that—surprising herself not one bit—Nora fell in love: with a room.

* * *

><p>The past in the present was petrifying. Freddie Ficklegruber had done his best to keep that past where it belonged, behind him, but he couldn't be sure. He lowered the phone as if it were nitro-glycerin.<p>

* * *

><p>Yes, the room was lovely, and Nora was smitten. Dropping to her knees, she put her hands on top of the little wall, leaning over as far as she dared, until she laughed aloud. Willy 'Who-knew-how-he'd-surprise-you-next?' Wonka sure knew how to make the most of decorating a room.<p>

The chocolate gathered beneath her in a great pool, with the river continuing out of it, meandering through the room. On the far side, beyond the fall, pipes of different sizes reached into the pool and sucked up the chocolate, taking it, Nora laughed again, to Willy knew where. In the pool's far corner, a giant pink seahorse reared its head from the surface, only to turn, on second glance, into the bow of an open boat, tethered to the shore. Oompa-Loompas in red jumpsuits—scores of them—worked among the trees and flowers.

Nora took it all in and began again. This time, she noticed an Oompa-Loompa on the shore across from her, richly dressed in black trousers and a dark-brown Nehru jacket, staring up at them. She turned to find Willy and ask who that might be, only to find Willy gone. Alarmed, her eyes searched the platform, and finding him, her alarm only grew.

Down on his left knee, Willy crouched by the river's edge, his right foot and hand anchoring his flat-on-the-floor walking stick, while his left hand floated inches above the surface of the chocolaty flow, making diving motions that mimicked a dolphin leaping in and out of the chocolate. Sometimes he would stop, and curl his fingers, and hold the heel of his hand stationary, above and against the chocolate current. But he never touched it. If he had, the rooster tail of the wake he caused would have drenched him, and everything near him, but good!

The edge of that thick, rushing river, a few feet from a towering drop, was no place for anyone. If Willy were Charlie, Nora would be plucking him back by his coat, and the scolding she'd give him would make him wish he'd been grounded for a month, instead. Nora looked back at the Oompa-Loompa to find him staring at _her_. He must agree, and Nora took a step toward Willy and the river.

Ha! From the corner of his eye, Willy caught the movement and pushed backward, leaping to his feet.

"Doesn't that look fun? Wanna try? But ya can't touch it!"

Willy didn't know why he was saying these things, he knew Nora couldn't hear him over the swoosh of the fall, but he didn't care, and he said them anyway. Catching sight of Eshle, Willy waved with gusto until he stood near enough for Nora to hear him.

"That's Eshle. Wave!"

Nora waved.

"Eshle is Ahlia's pater. And my right-hand man." Willy was beaming, and still waving. "He hates it when I do that. He hardly lets me up here. He thinks I'm gonna fall in, but that's absurd. I might jump in, but from that spot, I could only do it once, and it would ruin the chocolate. Blah! He's a silly-dilly if he thinks I'm a silly-willy." Willy stopped waving and rocked on his heels, smirking at Nora with his walking stick held parallel to the floor and behind his back.

The energy radiating off him engulfed her for a moment. It was as if Willy had brought the power of the river over to her, and laid it at her feet. Nora struggled to find some energy of her own to send back to him. She did.

"It's beautiful."

Willy turned away, his eyes becoming as soft as his voice, everything about him relaxing, as he surveyed his confectionary masterpiece from this lofty aerie.

"People say that."

Losing the twin spotlights of those eyes focused on her helped, and Nora spent a minute or two collecting her thoughts.

"Can we go down? Can we walk in it?"

"Did ya pick yer spot?"

It was a simple question but Willy made it sound like they were sharing an inside joke.

"My spot?"

"Fer yer house."

Charlie had said this, and Willy had taken her here, but seeing the reality, Nora dared not believe Willy meant it. Was he mad?

"_Are you seriously telling me you're planning on putting _OUR_ house in this gorgeous room?_"

The tone threw him.

"Nnoottttt wwithoutttt—"

Flustered, Willy stopped the stammer of incredulity and stepped back. It was paren phrasing that did it, catching him off guard. When had he let that down? He rolled his walking stick in his hands like an out of control, snapped up way too fast window shade. She'd said the room was beautiful, you'd think she'd like it! Fighting to maintain his composure, Willy studied his feet. Weakness before parens was anathema. Maybe she did like it. The question held a _nice _description and her underlying implication was okay, too. He risked a glance. She looked as confused as he felt. Did she not believe Charlie? Not believe _him_? That was outrageous! Willy flipped his walking stick back to his side and turned to face her.

"Seriously. I'm seriously saying, I'm seriously planning, on seriously putting _your house,_ in this seriously gorgeous room. Your word. Is that being serious enough? Are we not on the same page? This _is_ the Chocolate Room and this _is_ where your house is going. Didn't Charlie show you?"

"Show me?"

Tight-lipped, Willy threw back his head and looked into space, biting back something on his tongue until something in his brain bit back at him harder.

"Oh yeah. Charlie said he didn't show you guys, and I have it."

Like parting clouds revealing blue sky after a cold front has moved through, Willy's earlier sanguine expression popped back. His hand went to his coat, where he dug around in an inner pocket.

"Nope. Yup. See."

Nora unrolled the page Willy handed her, seeing it for the first time. It was a drawing of the Chocolate Room Charlie had done, their house nestled snugly in the middle ground, tucked away among the hills and plants. She looked up at Willy.

"You carry this with you?"

"Yup. Nope. Sometimes. Today."

Succinct as they were, a different expression and inflection had accompanied each word, and Nora smiled to herself as she looked back at the drawing. The room didn't look the same. Moving back to the low wall, she held the drawing at arm's length in front of her, comparing the views.

Curious, Willy moved closer, studying it over her shoulder.

"Heh. That's the stripped down version I did for the first tour. I hadn't spruced it back up yet when Charlie had his tour. He drew it like it was."

Nora looked from Willy, to the drawing, to the room, to Willy again, back to the drawing, and then back to the room. Spruce it up he had. She saw a room before her filled with Spring flowers, and a Summer garden's bounty. The drawing she held in her hand showed a Fall garden's picked-over harvest.

It was still amazing.

The point of view differed as well. Charlie had drawn his picture looking at the chocolate fall from the other side of the cavernous room, but if this drawing was the plan, the site for their house was a foregone conclusion. It was about the spot across from them, near the tall, arching bridge and the river's edge, and as Nora now realized, Oompa-Loompas were already clearing the area. All at once, Nora lowered her arm like a falling sequoia and burst out laughing.

Willy instantly took three paces backward, managing to salvage a shred or two of aplomb in the process.

"No, no, you're safe, I don't mind— the spot Charlie picked is fine with me." Nora rolled up the drawing and hugged it to her bosom. "It's all fine. I suppose you knew I'd go along, but thanks for pretending it wasn't already done. Does Charlie know he picked it? I doubt it. I'd know. Are you always this literal, or do you just agree with his choice? I love gardens! I love them, love them, love them—"

Overcome, Nora squeezed her eyes tight shut, and would have spun around, but she was afraid she'd fall off the edge. She snapped her eyes open, standing on tippy-toes for a second, spreading her arms low, like a ballerina.

Genially puzzled, rhetorical questions ricocheting around him, an otherwise amused Willy Wonka looked like he could use an explanation.

"I thought I was going to live in a factory." Nora's eyes danced. "A nice factory, mind you, but I'm _not_!" Her joy was alive. She'd have danced over to Willy and hugged him if he were anyone else, but reading her mind, he'd taken yet another step back. Thinking of her lucky mother, Nora smiled anyway, and made do by hugging herself.

"It's better than that. Fifty times better!" She made a little flourish when she caught Willy's acknowledging smile. "I'm going to live in a garden! A GARDEN!" Her glittering eyes shone to match anything Willy could dish out. "I can't believe it, and I couldn't be happier."

* * *

><p><em>Sabotage Within Wonka Factory. <em>Could any headline be more satisfying? Dr. Wonka studied it coldly from across the room, even as he lowered the phone to its cradle. Did these minions not want to relive that glory? They could do it with his help— but so far, no takers. That fool Ficklegruber had turned him down. Turned _him_ down. Like the others. He scarce believed it. With his face twisted in disgust, Dr. Wonka mockingly parroted the words he'd lately listened to.

'I'm sorry. I can't help you. I'm sorry. I can't help you.' That's all the man had said, over and over. It was enough to make you spit.

* * *

><p>Willy had smiled until he'd heard the last. It wasn't a garden. It was the Chocolate Room, not the Garden Room. Did the paren not think he knew how to name things? The candy in it was window-dressing for what was most important— his Factory's life blood— the chocolate. Whenever he looked at this room, what he saw first, last, and always, was the fall and the river. It was a revelation to him that wasn't what these other people counted important. They focused on the frippery.<p>

Willy forgot Nora and considered the room. Calling it frippery was too harsh. He changed it all the time, and he loved doing it, but he'd never given it much thought. He supposed it _was _a garden of sorts, and he'd never _not _do it— the way he'd never not breathe. It was at his core, like the beating of his heart, but why that was so was like a spot before his eyes— nebulous and untouchable.

It didn't come from Thea. Thea loved gardens as much as the next person, if the next person liked gardens, but she never had the time for them. Neither had he, till after he'd found the Oompa-Loompas. Come to think of it, he'd been in full retreat when he found the Oompa-Loompas, and in full retreat his locale of choice had been the biggest, lushest, deepest garden he could find. Because what, after all, was a jungle?— if not a huge, overgrown, garden?

After that, the idea of gardens took off, and Willy wondered how he'd lived without them. They felt so right. He had hundreds of them, all over the Factory. They fed the Factory, and the candy. Because what, after all, was candy, without fruit and spices to flavor it? He had orchards, and berry patches, and spice plants galore.

Trying to put his finger on it, he drifted. The colors swam before him, and Willy felt a breeze on his cheek, warm and caressing. He heard a lilting, feminine voice and smelled the heavy scent of rich, dark earth. It was somewhere, long ago and all but forgotten, but not. A soft touch, a loving look, doting attention, showing small hands—his—how to turn over the soil, how to set the tender plants. And then the warmth coalesced into a cold Fall night, and the sight of his father, stooping in a shaft of moonlight. In his velvet coat, and warm Factory, next to a dark river of steamy, melted chocolate, Willy Wonka shivered.

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, please review, and I hope you enjoyed this._

**_dionne dance_**_: You're probably thinking_ _you're having flashbacks as often as I thank you, but this is no flashback— Thank you! _**_Ifwecansparkle:_**_ Always happy to brighten your day, as your review certainly brightens mine._**_ LinkWonka88: _**_Thanks for joining the party; I'm glad you're enjoying the story._

_The human condition being what it is, there's a certain amount of 'inevitable discovery' involved in writing, but I would like to acknowledge two writers who pointed the way in snippets of this chapter. The first is James Thurber, for pointing out what you can see but not touch in his book 'The Thirteen Clocks', and the second is xAndarielx, for making the point about how important fruit is to candy making in her story 'Insuring the Future'.  
><em>


	21. A Few Doubts

Her exultation spent, Nora summoned herself back to earth, only to find her words, or her attitude—or both—had summoned Willy into space. The 'thank you' she planned to finish with, died on her lips. Willy stood detached: neither seeing nor hearing her. With her breath caught in her throat, Nora held up her hand, as if that motion in itself would stop the falling dominoes that were sending Willy to wherever it was he went. It did no good. Her mind awhirl, Nora wondered if she'd caused this, guilt rising like a spring tide, encroaching on her joy.

Nora bit her lip. Guilt receded into helplessness. Pussy-footing around Willy Wonka was all so tricky. No wonder he holed up in his Factory, if the least little mention of the least little thing had this effect on him. Dropping her hand, Nora let go her lip. This wasn't working. Looking at it pragmatically, the arrangement wasn't sustainable… for either side. Charlie would be so disappointed. It was only gardens she'd been talking about… innocuous little gardens, and she'd been saying nice things. How could a subject so benign have such a malignant result?

Nora searched her mind for a clue that would change the situation—she couldn't disappoint Charlie—and found Terence's earlier words echoing: 'Pretend you like him.' She'd thought then that the operative word was like, but she could see now it was _him._

Guilt re-entered, tipping its hat, and introducing her to remorse. Nora saw what Terence was getting at, her shoulders sagging to find she'd lapsed again. Every time she thought she'd made it past this, she'd find she'd circled back to the comfortable clutches of the icon—the icon she insisted Willy be, the easy way to think of him—but that wasn't him: he wasn't the town's success or its demise; her family's savior or destroyer; he wasn't his candy; or his Factory; or his out-of-style, stylish clothes; or his odd haircut; or even the beautiful, breathtaking garden creation before her. He was a person, like her, with his own past: a past some of whose events she's only learned of last night—was it really only last night?—and most of what she'd learned, small glimpses that they were, made her shudder: that lot; those braces; his mother's disappearance; his father's desertion; Cyn's death. Those things made her cold. Cold—the opposite of this Factory, where everything was warm. They were hard, when everything here was easy. They were like… stones. And Nora's eyes went glassy, as she remembered the stones. The stones her family told her that Willy, when asked about them, glossed over. The stones… set in what was once the garden of what was once Willy's home.

The garden… Nora stood as still as Willy. Who knew what the man remembered? Good… or bad? The thought sent chills down the back of Nora's neck. She turned to look for help. Eshle stood across the river, the concern on his face and in his posture, even from this distance, a giveaway to his feelings. Others, seeing him, turned from their work, looking the same. It helped Nora to see; to know. His workers loved him, even if Willy Wonka was blind to it, or discounted it. But Eshle was over there, and she was over here, and fixing this was up to her. Nora turned back in time to see Willy shiver. She'd do something. He had, for her. Swallowing, she moved toward him, touching his elbow when he didn't move, taking a step back so as not to crowd him. She understood dignity well enough, not least the tending to its preservation.

Willy startled and made a quarter-turn.

"Can we go down? Walk in it?" Nora suggested.

It took a moment. A re-hefting of the walking-stick, a re-ordering of the layers—mostly in his head—but standing straight, shoulders back, Willy soon had it done. It was nice of her. Pretending he hadn't been gone. He knew he had. If he had more blood in his veins than he did, the paren would see the blush whose heat he felt, but he was off the hook. He only had the blood he had. If she did notice, he would pass off the change in his pallor to the reflections of his surroundings. But she didn't notice. The embarrassment he felt, and she didn't see, still burned. This was all a mistake. Except for Charlie.

"Of course you can." Canned cheerfulness, an old standby. "It's where you'll live." He looked away, before looking back. The old standby left a sour taste in his mouth. "Chutes or ladders?"

"Chutes… or ladders?" echoed Nora, confused.

"To go down." Willy sounded forlorn. "I'm fresh out of barrels."

* * *

><p>Felix lounged against the door jamb between the kitchen and the living room, an overstuffed tuna salad sandwich balanced in his hands. Wilted lettuce poked from half-eaten slabs of bread; a bitten-into pickle piece threatening to fall.<p>

"Why are ya sorry, and who can't ya help?"

Freddie jumped in his chair as if the phone had really exploded.

"Wha?" Freddie's hand went to his heart before he saw it was only his only son. "Where did you come from?"

"Sorry, Pop— don't have a coronary. I knew it was your day off and I came over to raid the fridge." Felix took a step into the room.

"Get back in the kitchen with that thing— and hey! That sandwich's my lunch!"

"Not any morree," drawled Felix, in an accent he wished sounded French. "So why are ya sorry, and who can't ya help?" Taking another hefty bite, Felix waited for the answer, but he did step back.

"No one. Wrong number."

"Muh?"

"Wrong. Number."

Finishing chewing, Felix narrowed his eyes.

"Kinda a long phone call for a wrong number. Ya sure said it enough times." There was som'in' fishy going on here, and not just the sandwich he was eating.

"Lixer, it was a wrong number, and it's too early for lunch."

"And too late for breakfast, but I haven't had either, so I guess this is brunch."

Freddie crossed the room and joined his son in the kitchen. Glad as he was to see him, there was more going wrong here this morning than just the phone call.

"Did you leave me anything?" Not much, Freddie saw, but Mabel was marketing, so the food issue was no biggie. But maybe the other issue was. His arm hanging atop the open fridge door, Freddie pivoted to check his son's reaction.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work now?"

A few more bites would polish off the sandwich, and Felix took one. He ran through scenarios in his head while he chewed, but the truth was the easiest to keep straight. And he could blame Wonka.

"The newspaper decided to give me the day off. That worthless piece of shit Wonka's not putting in a park."

"Don't call him that. Didn't you check?"

"Wonka? Or piece of shit? And no. Why should I? And why shouldn't I call him that? Wonka has the money to put in a park. The fuckin' miser should put in a park."

Freddie sighed. "He did me a favor once. Forget it's Wonka. How 'bout you should check because it's your job?"

Felix's scowl would stop traffic. That asshole James had said the same thing. Did they crib off each other's notes or somethin'? The last bite of sandwich disappeared, and Felix came to grips with the rest of the untold story he thought he'd spill.

"Yeah, well, I guess the newspaper agrees. They gave me the rest of the week off, too." A stray bit of celery glued by a speck of mayonnaise lingered at the corner of his mouth; Felix wiped them off with the tip of his finger, sucking it clean. "What favor?"

Freddie sat down at the kitchen table across from his son. Messing with Wonka was a mistake, and everyone in town with a brain knew it.

"He wrote me a letter. I might have hurt a lot of people." Freddie leaned forward. The sandwich notwithstanding, Felix started a lot of things he didn't finish. This might be the latest in a long line.

"You can tell me, son. Did they fire you?"

"A letter? D'ya still have it?"

Freddie did, but it was last thing he wanted Felix to see. He shook his head.

"Too bad, Pop. I'd love to get my hands on a sample of that crumb's shitty handwriting. How's that? I didn't call him anything." Felix pushed back from the table. He hated Wonka, but the paper's editor had told him Wonka's spokeswoman had said anyone could make a mistake; it was whether they learned from the mistake that mattered. No one would know that unless Felix kept his job, so thanks to that piss-ant Wonka's spokeswoman, he'd kept his job.

"You called him a crumb. Answer the question. Did they?"

"They didn't. He really is moving a house."

* * *

><p>The choice of a chute or a ladder held no appeal for Nora. "Um," she started, with doubtful eyes, "is there some other way down? Perhaps?"<p>

The flit of a smile crossed Willy's face at her anticipated reluctance. In this room, there _were_ no chutes—maybe he should add some—but the ladder was fun. Ah, well.

"This lift'll do it," Willy said, maneuvering around her.

It heartened Nora to see the smile, however brief, and she fell into step.

"Don't you mean elevator?"

She chased her question with a grin, but with an imperious look, Willy shook himself like a rooster ruffling his feathers.

"A lift is inside. An elevator is outside. Everyone knows that. You've never heard of a grain _lift_, have you? And you've seen the Great Glass Elevator outside."

Willy delivered these observations in a mockingly cheerful voice, with a concluding smile that was most definitely fake. Those things, Nora was willing to let slide, happy to play along with whatever strategy Willy devised to keep going— because Nora had no doubt keeping-going was a struggle. The same way she'd earlier felt the energy he derived from the river, she now felt as clearly his desire to bolt. But past or no past, bolting or no bolting, dripping condescension and snippy delivery were uncalled for. Nora wouldn't tolerate it.

"So you're saying your Great Glass Elevator suffers from an ongoing identity crisis."

Tilting his head, Willy frowned as he led her to a structure rising out of the wall. Identity crisis? His Elevator? Was she daft? Willy stayed silent, but his expression shouted his affronted 'What!' for him.

Nora held up her arms like a balance, holding her hands flat, tipping them up and down as she spoke. "Inside— outside— lift— elevator— how does it know which it is?"

His face a study in perturbed puzzlement, Willy gave the presented problem a quick once over. Then he giggled—once—and his smile turned genuine. If anyone were suffering an identity crisis around here, it was him. Reaching the structure, with a flourish that was almost an afterthought, Willy leaned over and pushed the call button.

"This, dear lady," he began suavely, "is most certainly a lift— a sad little thing— a poor, pathetic cousin to my lovely GiGi, limited as it is to merely going up and down in this architecturally attractive, mostly decorative shaft." He pointed with the top of his walking stick to the other side of the fall. "See? The match of this is there."

Nora saw, and nodded.

"Gum drops. As in goody." Planting it before him, Willy plopped his hands on top of his walking-stick while they waited. "In contrast, the Great Glass, even inside, can go any-which-way it likes, and if it likes, an any-which-way the Great Glass can go is _outside_, and that, my dear lady, makes the Great Glass, _always _an_ elevator_."

His mouth a thin line, but with the corners turned up, Willy finished his pronouncement by shaking the hair around his face, his nose in the air, as if he were dispelling clouds.

"Great," mumbled Nora, as the lift arrived.

Disbelieving—but possibly, after so many 'great's of his own—with narrowed eyes aglint, Willy swung his head to see if Charlie's Mater had really meant to make a play on that word. By the chagrin he saw glowing on her face, he concluded she had, and feeling magnanimous that his elevator explanation had triumphed in defending GiGi's honor, in a fit of graciousness, Willy offered Nora his arm as they stepped inside.

Disbelieving, Nora disguised her surprise and ditched her doubts, deftly taking Willy up on his offer, her forearm floating a micrometre above the velvet that covered his, the tips of her fingers barely touching the top of his periwinkle-gloved wrist.

* * *

><p>The day was ticking by, with no sign of Nora. Terence had expected to see her by the early side of mid-morning, and it was almost lunchtime. He glanced up the hill. Maybe 'work with' meant 'work with' and not 'drive the truck again' but Terence wouldn't have put money on that.<p>

With nothing emerging from the Factory but smoke, Terence turned back to the project. Once the flurry over his clothes had died down—he knew he should have changed into the usual, but George, God curse him, had talked him out of it—he'd explained about the need to increase the pace, and the students had happily obliged. The house was coming down nicely, but the crates were stacking up.

* * *

><p>Cheated of his planned puppets—the mindless miscreants—Dr. Wonka stared at the phone, wondering if he had the strength to lift it this morning one more time. If he did, it would be to call a limo service to arrange for a car. He'd need one if he pursued this: he'd given up his Triumph TR3 roadster years ago.<p>

Dr. Wonka smiled, revealing a good many of his painstakingly preserved, yellowish teeth.

His Triumph.

The dull ache in his lower back nudged him from his deliberations. He didn't begrudge the ache, it took his mind off the nausea, but neither took his mind off the stabbing pains that increasingly joined the mêlée.

His triumph was locking The Boy in a life as lonely as his.

That couldn't be coming undone. They were both too old for that. Between the twinges, it crossed Dr. Wonka's mind that the lights last night might have been a fluke; one of the flaky workers, flipping a switch, for fun. That might explain it. The unmanaged pain was warping his thoughts. He needn't pursue this. No one else wanted to. Maybe they were on to something. The sweet scent of Chloroform, his unfailing friend, would smooth what ailed him, as it had before. Oblivious, he sniffed deeply.

The angry stab of agony blossoming in his gut brought Dr. Wonka back, his hand flashing, fingers clawing at his side in a futile attempt to pull away the burning dagger. Doubled over, tears stinging his eyes, Dr. Wonka panted for breath. The pain brought clarity. The lights had _stayed_ _on_, and a house _was moving_. This was no dream. This was as real as the pain shooting through him, and pain was what this was all about. In the time he had left, in the smallest crevices of his dark heart, Dr. Wonka vowed that the triumph of his life would not be overturned. If it weren't for The Boy, Mina would still be his.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading, please review, and enjoy your day. I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. And that applies to the nod to _'The Pink Panther Strikes Again' _as well_.

_**dionne dance**__: Parens: they do have their advantages, and I guess that's one of them. Thank you. __**LinkWonka88**__: A partial answer in broad strokes; details to follow. Thanks for your review._


	22. Keep On Truckin'

Around two-ish, a Wonka truck trundled down the hill. Nora hopped out, dark curls bouncing as she landed, cheeks ruddy with the cold.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, a reassured Terence strode over to greet her. Seeing Nora this chipper meant all was well in Wonka-world, even if it was three or four hours later than it should have been. Nora looked bright, and cheery, if a little shell-shocked, and Terence waited for her to speak. If she'd been to the Chocolate Room, it would take her a few minutes to re-align her senses to what passed for the normal world, and in any case, the normal world wasn't the way it normally was. Her house was shrinking every minute, turning itself into so many crates; what was left of her garden swarmed with students she'd never laid eyes on before yesterday.

The teeming scene made Nora feel small, as if she might be trampled, and she jumped back up to the runner of the truck, using it as a perch, the half-open door steadying her. Seeing how quickly her house was coming down was downright disconcerting.

"It's almost gone!"

"I'd hardly say that," said Terence, "but it's coming along."

"They're staring."

"It's a Wonka truck. It might hold a Wonka."

Nora gave a little start.

"That poor man! I'm going to pick up Charlie."

Terence cocked a brow.

"Shouldn't you wait till school lets out?"

Nora took her head off the swivel it'd been on since she'd gotten out of the truck and looked down at Terence. She laughed then, and sat back down in the driver's seat, kicking the door open the rest of the way, so Terence could stand beside her.

"You look very dashing in that color, Terence, dear— shades of that color, I should say. One of them is a perfect match for your eyes."

"So I've been told," Terence answered, wondering when he'd graduated to 'dear' status. "More than once, thank you— today."

Nora laughed again. It sounded like glitter, caught by full sunlight, skittering over ice. "Don't look so sour. You look like a million bucks."

"Green and dirty?"

"Go on with you." She pooh-poohed him with her hand. "You know what I mean."

"I do. And I've been advised of _that_ more than once today, too."

Grinning, Nora lapsed into silence, wonder filled eyes simply staring at him.

"You okay?"

"Swudge," Nora giggled.

"Swudge," Terence agreed.

"Swudge?" echoed a deep voice.

Nora and Terence, one surprised, the other impassive, turned as a team.

The speaker, feeling like an intruder, shifted where he stood. The way these two were giving him the once-over, you'd think he'd blundered into a secret meeting: right after the secret code word was exchanged, but before the secret handshake. He waited for more, but with no explanation forthcoming, he met their stares with a frown, lifting an indifferent shoulder toward the truck.

"It okay with you if we start loading this?"

Nora's surprise evaporated at the normalcy of the mundane question, her face slipping into a smile as she nodded her head at the student who'd come up to stand behind Terence.

With a motion, Terence concurred, his face relaxing. For a minute, he'd thought it was Felix.

The student moved off, signaling the others to start on the crates. A truck finally shows up, and that guy, after telling them only this morning he wants the operation sped up, stands around yakking like he's got all day. As weird as it was, the student was glad he'd interrupted them, but he let his new opinion of the operation cross his face as he turned away.

"There goes my efficient project manager status," Terence allowed, catching the disgruntled look. "And he's right. I'm remiss in my duties. He shouldn't have had to ask."

Watching the student's retreating back, Nora took scant notice.

"I've seen the Chocolate Room, Terence. If these folks knew what Willy's hiding up there in that Factory of his, they'd be storming the gates."

Terence kept his voice even.

"They do know. Swudge and all. It was in the newspapers."

"No one believes those," Nora scoffed. "I didn't. Look what he's doing to our house, and I'm not talking about taking it apart." Reaching over to the passenger seat, Nora picked up an oblong piece of wood, giving it to Terence.

Taking it, Terence turned it over in his hands. The wood was darkly rich; smooth, and lustrous, with a satin finish that made it look burnished. Terence recognized it as the shape and grain of the shingles on the Bucket house roof, but it was transformed. His considered response was a low whistle.

Nora only smiled.

"Wow, huh? Our house! Eshle gave it to me. I have to bring it back. Eshle says they're using a stabilizing resin that will preserve the wood, and also keep it from shedding particles into the room."

Terence handed back the end result of Willy's version of steam cleaning.

"It looks great."

The words were cheerful, but preoccupation made the delivery flat. She'd mentioned Eshle, so she'd met him, but as dearly as Terence would like to know the details, he wouldn't ask. This wasn't the time, or the place, or even, any of his business. His business was moving this house, and he'd already let himself be distracted from that.

Nodding, Nora took the piece, her fingers curling around its edge, lowering her head as she ran her hand along its satiny finish. She'd heard the reserve in Terence's voice; it struck a chord. For all her cheer, Nora had her own reservations. She wasn't sure things had ended well this morning, or not. Terence might help her know.

Her fingertips felt the grain of the wood, revealing its pattern; they'd failed to tell her anything about Willy. He'd dropped his arm the moment they'd entered the eleva… lift.

The truck rocked a little as the crates were loaded, the sounds becoming muffled as the space filled, her conversation with Terence lapsing into silence. Nora should ask how her father liked Terence's shop, but couldn't bring herself to do it. It didn't worry her like the rest of it did, and she'd hear about it firsthand, tonight. Her fingers flowed up and over the ridges and crevices of the grain. Her father was out of bed, working in a shop. Like the wood under her hand, the familiar pattern she knew was becoming something else, in ways she hadn't imagined possible.

"How does he do these things, Terence?" she murmured.

"We're done."

Terence and Nora turned again to face the returning student, their faces blank with thoughts they'd rather keep to themselves. Nora found her smile.

"Already?" She smoothly shifted the shingle out of her hand and on to the passenger seat.

The student grinned into the somber atmosphere. "There's a lot of us. And a lot more crates." Polite, his point made, he moved off.

Terence stepped away, and Nora made to close the door.

"Come up with me."

Terence stepped back to the truck, closing the door the rest of the way. Nora rolled down the window.

"Come up."

"Why?"

"You're supposed to pick up Charlie, and it's almost time."

"Not in a Wonka truck, I'm not. I like your son."

Nora bit her lip, thinking. "If we have two trucks working, this will get done faster. You can drive can't you?"

Terence almost laughed. "Like Jackie Stewart."

"Then get in. I'm sure Willy won't mind if you drive a truck." Nora crossed her arms.

Something niggled about the phrasing, emphasized by the defiant stance of her arms. She was sure? But for the tension around his eyes, Terence's face was unreadable.

"We can ask him."

Nora slumped against the seat-back, her head lowered, a hand across her forehead. "We can't." She looked up. "Willy went as far as the middle of that tall bridge in the Chocolate Room. He sat down, told me a few things about the room, introduced me to Eshle—who joined us—made some strange hand motions that Eshle understood perfectly—he made some back—and then Willy got up and left. Eshle was my guide after that—nice man—but when I asked where Willy went, he wouldn't say. But he did say after I'd had my fill of the Chocolate Room…"

Terence cracked a smile at 'fill of' that Nora pretended not to see. This wasn't a joke—even if that was—and she hurried on.

"…Willy said I should drive the truck for the rest of the day, and here I am. But I'm worried, because I have my doubts this arrangement will work out— in the long run, I mean, and you're the only one I can think of to talk to about it." Furtive eyes scanned the area. "We won't be overheard if we're driving."

Terence wasn't so sure about that, it _was_ a Wonka truck, but by now Nora was staring straight ahead, both hands choking the steering wheel, concern pinching her knuckles white. Terence kept his voice light. His earlier Wonka-world assessment may have been hasty.

"Then I'll get in, and you can drive, and we'll find some pleasant static on the radio, and turn it up, and pretend to listen to it while we talk."

* * *

><p>As he'd expected, once they were in the truck, heading up the hill, with the Chocolate Factory filling every inch of the windscreen, Nora had nothing to say. Terence turned off the radio, and hefted the piece of Bucket house he held in his lap.<p>

"As good as this looks, I'm surprised Willy is really going to allow something inedible in the Chocolate Room. I thought he'd turn your place into chocolate, or some kind of candy— a gingerbread house, perhaps."

Nora shuddered at the image. "Ugh. I'd feel like a captive in a Grimm's story, being fattened for slaughter." She paused long enough for a weak smile to find its way to her lips. "I'm sorry. I'm wasting your time."

Terence settled the treated wood back in his lap. "You're not. Using two trucks is a good idea, and so are klieg lights, or something like them. If Willy has something like that, we could bring them down, set them up, and work all night. If we throw in three trucks, with Noah driving, we'd be finished by early tomorrow afternoon." Glancing sideways, he paused a beat. "Noah can drive can't he?"

Nora ducked her head and grimaced with her teeth. So casually lobbed back at her, the question sounded like an insult. She hadn't meant it that way, or asked it to disparage Terence's accomplishments; she just didn't know what they were. Chagrined, Nora tossed her head and made light of it. "Like Mario Andretti."

Terence chuckled at her bravado, and Nora relaxed. He'd been pulling her leg. She'd forgotten he'd seen Noah drive yesterday. By now they were at the top of the hill.

The Factory's grand gates swung open for them like molten bronze melting wax, and Nora felt the warmth of returning home send a tingle down her spine. Home. Her home. Her face was flushed with the feeling, but she felt like a cat's toy, too, batted about by her own emotions. First up, then down, now up again. She had to take charge of herself. This was all so wonderful. It had to work. She'd make it work. She had to talk to Terence.

* * *

><p>With as many urgent unknowns as Nora implied were jostling for attention, it was the banal that triumphed. Having reached the courtyard, the first order of business was maneuvering the truck for unloading.<p>

Terence hopped out before Nora got started with that, and gazed toward the Factory's façade. The gates had opened, so things couldn't be that bad. He'd know more when they got inside. _If_ they got inside would be a good sign, too. Hands buried in his pockets, Terence could guess the problem. Hell, he had it, and his childhood was a cakewalk compared to Willy's. The Bucket family was a hard act to follow. Terence made a point of not comparing, but even as well versed with human nature as he was, it wasn't easy. Seeing Charlie with Noah was like a twist of the knife, as Terence imagined how things might have been if he'd had time with _his_ father. It'd be that much harder for Willy— he'd spent years burying his past, his family's past, burying himself; and here was the picture-book opposite, pitching camp, right under his nose. Terence wondered which made it harder for his friend— the years spent avoiding his past, or the self-indulgence having everything his own way for all these years encouraged.

Finished with her chore, Nora walked over to join him. As she did, a ray of sunlight peeked through the lingering overcast, the clouds beginning to break up. Remembering her morning's lesson, Nora tilted her head.

"You know, Terence— there is a place where those colors _would _be camouflage. Under the right conditions."

Terence tilted his head back at her, not getting it, but then he felt the sun, and did, tension filling him. "You're right— I should've seen that. Let's go in."

The door opened easily, but it was Eshle who greeted them, standing formally in their path, silent and unsmiling.

An unsmiling Oompa-Loompa is all wrong, and this had the feel of an impasse. Terence considered letting it play out, but everyone's discomfort was only rising.

"Eshle, my man. Good ta see ya. How's it hangin' and all that?" Terence slid a foot forward, bending into a crouch, and held out his hand. "Gimme five down low, don't be slow!"

Nora looked askance, Eshle cracked a smile, and the tension was gone.

"That's so not you," Eshle said.

"I'll hazard this is so not any of us. Where's Willy?"

"We want to ask if we can use more trucks," added Nora, when Eshle fell silent again.

"That's fine," Eshle waved. "Use all the trucks you want. Willy is unavailable. He'd like you to continue as directed."

Terence thought about the camouflage. "Is he here?"

Eyes on his feet, Eshle nodded, and the hall descended again into uncomfortable silence.

"Hm." Terence considered. Time to give himself a chance to find out about the morning. That'd be easy enough. Nora already wanted to fill him in. "Forget Willy."

Eshle looked up, aghast.

"Let's switch to something easier. Do you have bright, portable lights we can use to light the Bucket house so we can work through the night?"

"Yes," said Eshle, happy with this idea. "We do. He'd like that."

"Then here's the new plan. Nora and I will take two trucks down now so they can be loaded. While that's happening, we'll walk over and pick up Charlie from school— it'll be time by then. We'll go back to the site and get the trucks. You have the lights ready to go when we get back. Sound good?"

The walk to the school would be a perfect opportunity to talk to Nora.

"Sounds good," Eshle agreed.

"Okay. Willy should be out of his funk by then, but if he's not, I'll deal with it."

Eshle and Nora nodded, but neither one believed it for a minute.

* * *

><p><em>Happy New Year, all! I'm starting mine off with an update, and hoping for the best. Thanks for reading, enjoy your day, and if you'd care to, please review. I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended._

**_dionne dance_**_: You make an excellent point. Perhaps the difference lies in the scope of their responsibilities. Thanks for taking the time to review. Likewise my thanks to you, **Ifwecansparkle**. I am happy to write FanFiction has added Mrs. Bucket to the list of _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ characters authors can select to highlight._


	23. Missing

It was the swudge that did it. Nora getting her hands on the swudge; tasting it; losing herself in its possibilities. All those ideas, spilling like the Chocolate fall, one after another, and he, hearing them, thinking all the while he never intended to market the stuff. Her reaction was what he imagined Thea's might be, and _that_ memory, Thea, was one memory too many, on a day when memories of mothers, and not-mothers, poked at him like sharp sticks.

It was enough.

With these memories, further sticking around might prove stickier still—these slimy tendrils of thought, like Sargasso seaweed, sucking him under—so with adroit finesse, at his earliest opportunity, Willy segued himself from the stickiness. Successfully unstuck, having spirited himself away, Willy dropped his palm to the top of the wing-backed, solitary chair he stood behind, stuck now, wondering whether he should drop the walking-stick, and the hat, and the gloves, and drop into it, to curl himself in a ball, like a caterpillar on defense.

It was tempting.

Willy dropped the walking-stick and kept on the gloves, leaning instead of sitting, his elbows propped against the chair's back, his chin resting atop his knit-together fingers. The light filling the room was odd, but he welcomed the distraction it afforded. He was almost never here during daylight hours, but if he wasn't going to be where he was—and that was an issue today—here was where he may as well be. It was private. He could think here. And if he disappeared here, to wherever it was he went when he disappeared, no one would be the wiser.

The top hat came off next, bumping two-point on the carpet, brim and tall edge, forgotten, and then it was the boots. Willy moved to the front of the chair and sat down, tucking his feet up on the cushion, arms around his legs, chin on his knees. It wasn't the caterpillar curl, even if one shoulder did crook itself into the join of the chair's back and wing, and it better not be. Caterpillars were easy prey; even Oompa-Loompas caught caterpillars. And ate them … for lunch, and dinner … and breakfast. Gah!

Willy's eyes widened with where this was going, but then, remembering the taste of the caterpitorial green variety, Willy smiled, even as he grunted a sound of disgust. _That_ was one flavor that was _never_ gonna see the inside of any of _his_ candy. Caterpillars were off the menu, Oompa-Loompan or otherwise. No one would eat them. Willy ducked his forehead into his knees and chuckled. The way his guts were churning, it was perfectly possible he_ was_ the caterpillar in this cup of confusion, and living like this wasn't gonna cut it. He couldn't run his Factory if forgotten, and half-forgotten memories put him at their mercy; at their whim, turning him willy-nilly, into a time-traveler. And if the past twenty-four hours were any indication, at their willy-nilly whim, he was, with the Bucket family their obliging trigger.

That would have to stop.

Willy leaned back in the chair and got comfortable then—really comfortable—tucking his feet underneath himself; legs folded at an angle, supported by the chair's arm; and let his mind go blank. It was easy. He was used to it. It was what he always did here, and he waited for the answer to his dilemma to paint itself on the canvas he had wiped clean, for just that purpose.

The first paint-bubble that floated up to burst on the canvas made him laugh aloud: it was the Factory, as it was before the contest— but for himself and the Oompa-Loompas, not another soul in sight. Wouldn't that be grand? With his eyes closed, thick lashes shadowing his cheek, Willy waved his still gloved hand in the air, banishing the thought. The present arrangement had its rewards. There was no going back.

There was no going forward, either. Nothing else presented itself, except scenes of Charlie, with his family, from last night's dinner. The loneliness he'd felt last night crept back, smothering him, as if chained to a rock, in a rising tide.

The surface calm erupted. Like a waterspout, Willy leapt from his chair. Feet apart, nostrils flared, he cast about for his walking-stick. Seeing it, behind the chair, he whirled, hair flying, and in one fluid motion, he scooped it up, crushing the Nerds to his chest. It was a chair, not a rock, and the tide wasn't rising! He never felt lonely! Thousands surrounded him! If anything, it was the opposite! He felt crowded, and anyway _what Charlie had now he'd had twice!_

Willy stood there then, slowing his breathing, wondering what all the excitement was about. He'd had it twice. That should be enough. How greedy was he? He just didn't remember one, and the other was long gone. It could be worse. He could be Terence. Willy looked at the walking-stick in his hand and let it drop. Here he was, right where he thought he was, and he was thinking about all of them. Maybe that was the trick of it— don't wait for a trigger, think of them yourself. If that were true, there was more to think about.

Stepping over his walking-stick, Willy headed for his bed, peeling off his shimmering frock coat as he walked, dragging it on the lush carpet until it fell from his hand, stretched along its length, still shimmering, collapsed in its own folds. The gloves were next, tossed without a thought, and then he was on his stomach, stretched out on the carpet like his coat; his arm buried up to his shoulder in a space it barely fit; his hand digging under his bed for the tattered cardboard box he kept there.

"Eureka."

Pulling his find toward him, Willy sat cross-legged on the cloud-like grey carpet, gentle fingers exquisitely removing the brittle lid of his treasure, holding it delicately. This box was the relic that held his relics; the first box of candy he'd ever bought. He'd kept it hidden from … well, hidden, and the corner of his mouth turned up, to think that in this humongous Factory, that belonged to him, he was hiding it still. His index finger softly traced the faded, flowing letters emblazoned across its top. Willy didn't know which he loved more— the sense of continuity he got from it, a tangible link with his distant past, made by a candy maker who'd never tried to steal his secret recipes, or the rollicking, cursive 'W' his finger was tracing. Willy closed his eyes, the better to feel it. It was the 'W' that had done it; the reason he'd chosen this particular box. Mr. Whitman, the lucky man, had a name that happened to start with Willy's initial: both initials, in fact, and back then, that was as close as he could come to his own name. Willy knew he would change that— make _all _the letters his, and he had, but this box was an old friend.

Opening his eyes, Willy set the lid aside. What he was looking for lay next to the vial of Wonkavite—well, what was left of the Wonkavite—in a small, artfully engraved, hinged silver folder, its interior lined with a soft, acid-free fabric. It held the torn half of a yellowed snapshot, taken with a cheap Brownie camera, long gone, and Willy didn't stop to look at it now. If he'd learned anything today, it was that he owed the family he still had, and after changing his coat for the third time, that's where he was taking this.

* * *

><p><em>It's short, but it's angst. Thanks for reading, enjoy your day, and if you'd care to, please review. I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended._

_Thank you, thank you, thank you reviewers:__** dionne dance**, __**Ifwecansparkle, LinkWonka88. **I'm too tuckered to say more, but thank you, thank you, thank you._


	24. Out Of The Blue

The spaceship was hard to manage, and what he was shooting at was off the screen. A pointer pointed the way, and the tracers of the pirate ship's weapons made their own path, but a target you could see would be so much easier to hit. Dr. Grant fired at random, hoping for a lucky kill, as another ship hove into view, firing on his vessel relentlessly. About the time his ship was hit with a crushing volley, he heard the knock on his door.

"I say, thank God, whoever you are," Dr. Grant muttered, as he put _Freelancer _on pause.

"But," breathed as an afterthought, "I dare say ... who can you be?" It was an odd time of day for a knock, unless he expected a package, but nothing was on order, and no package was expected. Dr. Grant turned to the other monitor on his desk, checking the status of the Lot. The neighborhood, well coached, referred the curious in that direction to him, but the Lot looked undisturbed, and the sidewalk was quiet. He got up, deciding for the hundredth time to put in a camera at his door, and knowing for the hundredth time, he wouldn't. The day he got as paranoid as Willy, was the day he would hang it up.

"Coming," Dr. Grant called out, in a cheery way. As much time as he'd taken to answer, most folks would have knocked again. Visitors were too few to squander, and he didn't want to discourage this one.

Crossing the living room, he heard footsteps on the steps, and he called out again. "Almost there!"

The sounds stopped, and Dr. Grant threw open the door.

"There!" he crowed.

"Here," came a squeak.

Dr. Grant stepped back, before his inclination made him make the mistake of stepping forward. The darkly bespectacled, heavily be-robed visitor was Willy, and even as shocked to see him as he was, Dr. Grant knew he would rush headlong out to hug the boy, now man, if he didn't step smartly in the other direction, immediately. A hug would be a disaster, and this was no time for disasters.

"I say," he choked out. "Willy. Come in. Come in."

The door stood agape, the heat escaping, as Sinclair stood well back. Willy had no choice but to go in, if only to see the door got closed. All that heat escaping was a terrible waste. Taking a deep breath, Willy swanned in, as if dropping by like this was an everyday occurrence.

"Crummy disguise, if you know who I am," Willy said. He was minus his trademark top hat and walking-stick, and that should fool anyone.

"Oh, dear me, no! It's an excellent disguise, my boy. Anyone who didn't know your voice, wouldn't know you."

Willy cringed at being called 'boy', as he always had, 'my' or 'dear' or other modifiers notwithstanding, and wondered for the billionth time if Sinclair would ever notice that.

"I came to visit my room," Willy said, closing the door with his foot, as he cleared the threshold.

"Visit away," answered Dr. Grant, with a half-bow and wave in that direction.

Willy hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but Dr. Grant ignored him, and headed back to his study. It was time to pack up _Freelancer_ for something much more diverting, and doing this now would spare Willy the awkwardness of further immediate social interacting; give him time to adjust. At least, that's what Dr. Grant hoped.

When Dr. Grant returned to the living room, Willy was gone. From the house? Dr. Grant tiptoed down the hall, listening at the stairs, hearing some faint noises. There wasn't much in that room to move. Books? The photograph frames perhaps? Ashamed of himself, he felt like a snoop. Curiosity be jiggered, this was no way to treat a guest, much less Willy, and Dr. Grant tiptoed back to the living room.

Deciding to wait by the mantlepiece, Dr. Grant wondered if he should offer Willy some refreshment. Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate? That would be daunting— serving hot chocolate to a chocolatier— _that _chocolatier. Making something … tired of standing, Dr. Grant took a seat in his well-worn armchair, and sat on his hands instead. Until they fell asleep, that is. Then he shook them out, and folded them neatly in his lap. Whatever interested Willy was taking awhile, and though itching to know what it was, Dr. Grant resigned himself to patience. He slouched back in his comfy chair, and closed his eyes, pretending he hadn't hoped for a visit like this, for years.

"I came to visit you, too."

Dr. Grant's eyes snapped open. Willy was standing stiffly by the matching armchair, his long, black great-coat hanging as stiffly from his arm, his oversized sunglasses still in place, as was his British newsboy style hat.

Hearing that, Dr. Grant, a man who prided himself on the 'bon mot', the ready quip, found his throat like a sand desert: quip-less, and scratchy with its dryness.

Willy seemed to understand. With a pale hand he plucked his great-coat off his arm, and dropped it on the chair's arm. For a minute, Dr. Grant thought Willy wasn't wearing gloves, but then he saw he was. They were ultra-thin, and the color of his skin. The coat's skirt looked as stiff as when Willy held it, but Willy himself had relaxed a little.

"I blew off Martha."

Dr. Grant's brain shifted into high gear. Willy was bringing up his, Dr. Grant's, granddaughter? Blew her off? Willy must mean his guest-chef visits to her restaurant. A smile cracked Dr. Grant's face, and he chuckled.

"She didn't mind. L'usine will survive, I dare say."

Willy took off the sunglasses, his face a study in skepticism. "She didn't?"

"Sit down." Dr. Grant saw no need for a fuss over an arrangement that no one in the family had thought would go on for very long. "Make yourself comfortable. I'd offer you something, but I'm afraid it wouldn't measure up."

"I'm a sucker for hot chocolate," Willy grinned. "And I don't want to sit down. Do you have any?"

His forearms flat on his chair's arms, Dr. Grant nodded, his fingers tattooing a little dance. "Yours, of course."

"Then let's go to the kitchen, and I'll make it. That way, I'll have only myself to blame if I don't like it."

His hands clapped the chair's arms forcefully enough to raise a little cloud of dust, and then Dr. Grant was on his feet.

"Deal!"

The sudden movement was startling. Willy got over his fright by hightailing it to the kitchen, where Dr. Grant, trailing after him, found him taking an inventory of every cupboard in the place. It was amusing, the boy hadn't changed a bit, and Dr. Grant settled himself at the kitchen table to watch, moving Willy's discarded hat off to the side.

"Martha told me just last week she thinks you have some kind of radar."

Willy quirked a brow as he lined up ingredients and put a pan of milk on the cooktop.

"You stopped your visits just in time. She noticed some of her customers filling Tupperware containers with samples of their courses. I say, not your usual doggy bag. She thinks the other restaurateurs are sending in spies, to see if they can analyze the recipes."

The carton of heavy cream and bowl Willy was putting in the freezer almost hit the floor.

"Sorry, you probably don't think that's funny, but she did. Some things never change." The juggling act was over, the cream and bowl unharmed. "Why are you putting those in the freezer?"

"The cream whips better if it and the bowl are cold. I thought we'd have whipped cream on top."

"I say, yummy!" Dr. Grant caught Willy's eye and winked. "Martha really thinks they just love your recipes and are taking them home to savor later."

Willy turned away, looking askance. He wasn't used to people pulling his leg with a straight face. It was weird.

Dr. Granted leaned back. "But she says your real menace was _Chopped._"

"Chopped?" The milk was starting to boil. Willy took it off the heat.

"You know, the show on the Food Network. Surely you've heard of it?"

"Shirley, I have. The Oompa-Loompas watch it. I've seen it a time or two. Doris insisted. They have a song about it." Willy made a face. "There's bacon involved. And a lot of slicing, and dicing. And chopping blocks. And cutting boards. Heh. It's kinda grisly."

"Dear me! You do realize there's no chocolate in that milk?"

"Dear you, I do." Willy took the cream and bowl out of the freezer.

"Martha's staff were thinking you'd make an excellent contestant on that show. They were about to volunteer you."

Willy turned a wide-eyed, incredulous stare Sinclair's way.

"So you see, your radar was spot on. Any more visits, and there'd be complications."

Willy stifled a groan. Presently, the world was nothing but complications. Being here was a complication. And he should have made the topping first. With more clatter than was necessary, Willy put some cream into the bowl and beat it to within an inch of its butter, but ruining it was something he couldn't bring himself to do. It did stop the talking, though, and as he set the topping aside, Willy re-played the tape in his head of the conversation so far. Martha wasn't mad at him. She thought him clever; with good timing. Whew.

Willy added some dry ingredients to dark chocolate pieces he'd found, and added that mixture to the scalded milk, now back on the heat, stirring. Sinclair held his peace, and Willy finished making the hot chocolate, thick and rich, still pondering the comments. He brought the mugs to the table, and set them down. He was still standing.

Dr. Grant peered at his mug and smacked his lips.

"I say, how do you make the cream look like that?"

"The quenelle? It's easy. You do it with the spoon." And then, with a little chuckle, his eyes far away, Willy smiled as if he meant it.

Dr. Grant sat back, beaming. "What?"

If Willy sat down, they'd have it made.

Willy sat down, his head in his hands, really laughing now. "Can you imagine," he said, coming up for air. "Me? On _Chopped_? I'd get chopped in the first round! Holy Hornswogglers!" He snorted with laughter. "Ya know what would be good?"

Dr. Grant shook his head and picked up his mug. The chocolate was very thick. He might need a spoon.

"Me choosing the Mystery Basket ingredients." Willy sat back, composing himself for a minute, before throwing his head back with a tilt, half-closing his eyes, and saying in Ted Allen's voice: "Chefs, please open your baskets. Your dish must contain green caterpillars, the bark of the Bong-Bong tree, fresh cacao bean pods, Whangdoodle blood-meal, and snozzberries." Then Willy leaned forward, elbow on the table, forehead in his hand, his other arm clutching his middle, as he dissolved in giggles.

Recognizing nothing on the list but cacao bean pods, Dr. Grant sat back, chuckling a little himself, and glanced over to Cyn's place, to see what she thought. She wouldn't care if she had no idea what Willy was talking about; she'd laugh because he was. His gnarled hands grasped his mug harder when he saw Cyn wasn't there, his face coloring as he realized his mistake. Ducking his head, Dr. Grant risked a peek at Willy, to see if he had noticed the lapse. Willy was just turning back from looking at the same empty chair, and their eyes met. The room was suddenly quiet, the atmosphere as thick as the chocolate.

"Willy." Having instantly lowered his gaze, Dr. Grant traced the tablecloth with a fingernail.

Willy thought for a long time before he answered. There was no ambiguity in the names any more.

"Sin."

Dr. Grant brought his head smoothly up, not daring to believe what he'd heard, but what he saw in Willy's eyes closed the door to any thought that Willy's use of the nickname had been a mistake. Terence had told him Willy forgave him for his lack of compassion all those years ago. In this moment, he truly believed it.

"Willy." The name was more of a croak.

"Sin." Not a split second of hesitation.

Sin cleared his throat. "You didn't say what course that basket was for." He gave a little cough, his throat still not right. "Appetizer, or entrée?"

Willy grinned and took a sip of his chocolate, before leaning in with a fiendish gleam in his eyes. "Dessert … natch."

They shared a smile, and drank their hot chocolate.

* * *

><p>"Willy." Dr. Grant's hand flew up before Willy could respond, continuing before Willy's look of puzzlement deepened. Now was as good a time as any to get this done. "I say … over the years ... I've come to think of myself as 'Libby'."<p>

"Heh," Willy sheepishly laughed, after a pause. So the man did know about that. "You don't say."

"I say. I do say."

"Then I'll say, 'Libby'. 'Kay?"

"Okay."

"Libby."

Willy said the name he'd used for years, to the man he'd used it for, behind his back, to his face. The sigh that escaped him, at the dropping of all those years of gentle subterfuge, would have been inexplicable to Libby, if Libby hadn't known about the moniker, all along. For Willy, it was like thinking you hadn't studied for the exam of your life, only to discover on the day you thought you had to take it, you'd already graduated, with honors. He felt light-headed, and floaty, like fizzy-lifting without the fizz, but there was more to do, and he waited for Libby to respond.

"Willy."

Willy gathered his strength in the face of this light-headedness.

"I invited a family to live in my Factory."

Libby's eyes narrowed; his turn to be puzzled. "I know that. I've met two of them … Nora, and Charlie. I say, my dear boy, they seem like the right sort of people. They were here, last night. You know that."

Midway through what he'd been saying, Willy's shoulders had hunched … and then it was gone. Libby frowned, wondering if he'd imagined it.

I do know that. Willy drew his finger along the line made by the base of his mug and the tablecloth. Maybe one more tangent? Why not? Nora had stayed for dinner. "What'd ya have?"

"Spaghetti."

Willy sat up, delighted.

"Hey! Me, too!"

Dr. Grant smiled a small smile, wondering what this was about, knowing it wasn't spaghetti dinners.

Willy could see it was time. He meant it; he'd say it.

"The invitation extends to you," Willy said.

His first inclination was to laugh, but Dr. Grant could see Willy was deadly serious, and Willy was never deadly serious. This would take some diplomacy, though he'd thought they'd understood each other on this point. But perhaps the new family had Willy off-balance; not seeing what was left of his old family in the light they both knew, in their hearts, was the right light.

"Well, well, good heavens! I say … I'm honored." Dr. Grant gave the table a gentle slap. "On behalf of Thea and Libby, I heartily accept."

Willy looked up from his study of the tablecloth, violet eyes searching.

"And on behalf of Dr. Sinclair Grant, may I beg a rain check?"

Willy cocked his head.

"I say, my dear…" Dr. Grant noted the tensing of the shoulders again, "…Willy, Thea's not here to take advantage of your offer, as I know she would…"

A flick of Willy's eyes to Thea's empty chair, and back to Libby, as he listened.

"…But there's so little of Libby in me, and so much of Dr. Sinclair Grant, that while I know Libby would, too … I can't." Dr. Grant paused, his voice as gentle as he could make it. "As empty as it seems, I fear I'm the ruler of my roost, and were I to live anywhere where you rule yours, I'd spend all my time staying out of your way, and you, out of mine. Why make that obvious, when this arrangement is so much more convivial?"

The seconds ticked by in silence.

"I say, as an example, look how long it's taken me to figure out you don't like being referred to as, no, no, you don't need to cringe, I won't say it, but you know the word I mean."

Willy shifted in his chair, eyes on linoleum he'd helped make worn.

"In your defense, you don't see me a lot."

"Would you like to talk about that word?"

"Nuhh-oooo."

If the strung-out word didn't get the point across, the head-roll did. Willy stood up, and so did Dr. Grant, scooping up the mugs and taking them to the sink.

"You were doing something when I got here."

Dr. Grant turned with a grin. "I was; I was; I can tell you, I was. I was piloting a spaceship, making the universe safe from pirates, in the name of commodities' trading. Say hello to Edison Trent."

Willy's hand looked for the walking-stick he didn't have with him. "Spaceship? Pirates? Don't you mean Vermicious Knids?"

"Vermicious k'whats? I'm referring to a video game, _Freelancer, _and I say, I'm making a hash out of playing it, indeedy, indeedy. I volunteer at hospital, and everyone under thirty plays these things. They're conversation starters … something to take their minds off why they're there, and if you've actually played them, you've more credibility."

Willy, holding his hat out in front of him like a dead flounder, was already in the living room, reaching for his great-coat, the hat disappearing into it, Libby right behind him.

"Do you want to go to space? Really?"

Willy was offhand, the two questions that were one, throw away, but the way he carried himself after, listening intently for the answer, gave Dr. Grant pause.

"I don't think so. I should think it'd be a lot of bother."

Nodding as if dismissing the idea, Willy resumed his manipulations of his great-coat.

"Okey-dokey."

"Would you like to take a walk? I say, here's an idea … we could visit Cyn."

Willy, concentrating, was still fiddling with his great-coat, shaking it out, and holding it high, like a lantern.

Dr. Grant gave it another go.

"Your interruption was a welcome one." He thought over what he'd said about space. It seemed to disappoint Willy. "No bother at all."

With an upward flourish, Willy pulled a gold-topped, ebony walking-stick from a narrow, vertical pocket, sewn into the folds of the great-coat. His hand felt better already for holding it, and the coat lost its stiffness. He showed the stick to Libby.

"D'ya still have yours?"

Dr. Grant made a beeline for the umbrella stand by the door. He pulled out his well-used, but otherwise identical, walking-stick.

Willy laughed, holding his walking-stick at his side, as he shrugged one arm into his coat. It pleased him Libby's version was so close to hand, but he wasn't really surprised. After all, Libby _gave_ him this walking-stick, the match of Libby's own, decades ago. Willy switched the stick to his other hand and finished donning his coat.

"And yer hat?"

Dr. Grant reached for the shelf above him, and took down his coachman's hat. It was similar to a top hat, but not as tall. "I do … but you don't have yours."

Willy gave his head a mischievous toss.

"I wouldn't count on that."

Now that he had it on, from another pocket, sewn in the coat's back, Willy pulled a Frisbee-like object. He gently tapped the center, and voilà, the body of a top hat popped into place.

"I love these things. They're collapsible. It's not my favorite, that one's back at the Factory, but it _is_ silk, and it'll do in a pinch." Willy popped the hat on his head, grinning like a scamp. "I believe I'll take you up on that walk, but not to see Thea. I think she's seen us already today; we just didn't see her. We'll be two trees in a forest, dressed alike as we are, so if you'd like, you can walk me to my ride."

"I would like that. Where is it?"

"Not what is it?"

"I can guess. It's that confounded Elevator contraption."

"It is." Willy's smirk filled the room.

"Where?"

"The Lot."

Dr. Grant frowned to hear that.

"I say, the monitor showed nothing."

Willy launched his walking-stick upward a few inches, caught it around its middle as it came down, and let it swing parallel to the floor as he started for the door.

"Because, I, my dear Libby, know where the blind-spot I designed in that camera deployment is, and the Elevator I've brought today, was made for it. After that, I took a circuitous route." Willy thought about the extra time the roundabout route added. "We can take that route back, if you like."

The crows' feet at the corners of Dr. Grant's eyes deepened, as holding open the door, he nodded his agreement.

Once on the sidewalk, sunglasses in place, Willy turned the opposite direction to the Lot, strolling as if he owned everything he saw. Dr. Grant wondered. Maybe he did. The overcast was beginning to break up a little, and Willy, enjoying the crisp, bracing air, from the warm sanctuary of his great-coat, spied a patch of sunshine to jump into. He leapt ahead, imprisoning it with his boots.

"Ha!" Willy cried, mission accomplished, waiting for Libby. "It's turning into a nice day."

Glancing up at the minuscule break, and then at the dappled patch of sunlight that was already escaping the anchoring footfalls of his wishful, willful, commandeered, accidental son, Dr. Grant sauntered toward Willy, twirling his walking-stick with the skill of a master.

"Don't be silly, my dear child. It's been a grand day, for over an hour."

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading, enjoy your day, and if you'd care to, please review. I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Ditto as far as _Chopped_ is concerned, and also, that random reference to _Airplane!

_Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you reviewers:__** dionne dance**, __**Ifwecansparkle, LinkWonka88, 07kattho. **This chapter was longer, but it's not all angst, so that's okay._


	25. Heigh-Ho

Life was simple if you knew its tricks; or his choice: you stayed out of its way. The Factory beckoned, but only by proxy. All Willy could see of it, hovering inches above the deck of pancake clouds in the Great Glass Elevator, racy version, as he was, was the plume of steam rising from its center stack. Machines needed cooling, and that tower was it. Like a fountain's spray, the condensation punched through the layer, rising high above it.

It was time to go back, Libby sufficiently seen, but perhaps _this second _wasn't _that second … _the second to make that so. Here, now, the sunshine raining down on his body felt like a glorious catharsis. The whiteness of the clouds, the jewel of the sky's blue above them, glittered in stark contrast to the dreary grey suffered by those trapped below. As rapturous as Willy felt, it very nearly hurt him to look at the one, or think of the other.

* * *

><p>Before he took off in his gizmo, Willy had shooed him away; almost, in fact, clear back to the street, and that, Dr. Grant thought, was just as well. Even upon the set-in stones as the flying glass elevator sat, once those rockets kicked up, the dust, and dirt, and every other what-all, flew everywhere.<p>

Remarkably quiet though, Dr. Grant allowed, as, the contraption gone, he picked his way the rest of the way to the sidewalk. He hadn't realized Willy had more than one of those thingamabobs, or that he had one that small. It was hardly bigger than a telephone box, really. And dear me, mused Dr. Grant, his chin on his chest, that doggone blind spot Willy designed in the system! How often does he come here? I'd never be the wiser.

Reaching the sidewalk, his chin still tucked, Dr. Grant looked back, absent-mindedly tapping his walking-stick on the pavement, eyes hooded in contemplation. The noise of the thing amounted to little. It was a residential neighborhood. This time of day, most everyone living on the block was at work. 'Cept for the occasional old-fogy, like me, he chuckled to himself. No surprise then, it was a smart time of day for a smart cookie like Willy to drop by. And while we're on the subject of smart, how 'bout all those set-in stones? Didn't they just make a nifty landing pad! Did that solve the mystery?

Today, seeing the Lot he thought he knew anew, Dr. Grant noticed that not all the stones were of the same color. Here and there, a few were different: lighter or darker. Odd, when that happened, they tucked up tight to their neighboring stone. Humph. That detail aside, it was where the blind spot sat that intrigued him most. In a transparent, climate-controlled, quick-getaway equipped refuge such as that elevator afforded, it was a cracking good spot to contemplate the smooth, unadorned stone that seemed the heart of the design.

For not the first time, knowing he didn't have all the pieces, Dr. Grant felt the opportunity to feel left out. But not today … today he had all the proof he needed to know he was a fool if he did. There might be more to know about Willy, but whatever it was, it mattered as little as the noise of the elevator. The warmth Libby felt from the visit, on this chilly afternoon in February, was like a gentle summer sun, suffusing him still.

Contemplating the whole, Dr. Grant, with not a care in the world, squared his shoulders, swung his walking-stick, and turned toward his opaque-except-for-the-windows, climate-controlled, not-going-anywhere, snug little home, a smile tracing his lips, his tuneless humming filling his ears. Willy's secrets were best left to Willy.

* * *

><p>Throwing his head back, Willy unfurled his right arm and gloved hand, extending them above his head to their full extension, sighting along the length of his arm as he did so. When he thought he might touch the sky with his fingertips, he rolled his wrist, flexing his fingers with the finesse of a magician. He finished his little ceremony with three fingers curled against his palm, his thumb a counter-balance, his index finger poised to select a button. Libby had talked about space.<p>

* * *

><p>Terence felt like a juggler. He couldn't remember a mission in his career as fraught with unseen snags as this simple task of moving a shack into a candy factory was turning out to have. But then again, Terence had always worked alone, and he could appreciate that was Willy's modus operandi, too. It was all the players involved complicating this mess.<p>

Terence shook his head as he climbed into his friend's truck, backing it out of its nose-in parking spot near the Factory's steps. How clever of that weasel Willy, not wanting to play the players' mind games, to palm this duty off on him. Terence threw the truck's transmission into drive, and turned the wheel. That wasn't fair. That was frustration, rearing its ugly head. It might be playing his own mind games Willy was trying to avoid.

Eshle had handed him a diagram showing him where to park the vehicles while he and Nora went to pick up Charlie, mumbling an explanation about CCTV cameras, something about hacking, and strategic angles. Terence took it, knowing he'd do it, but he was too polite to tell Eshle that wouldn't suffice. If the town owned the cameras, the town could turn the cameras off. He'd asked for a phone—by God, the Factory did have one—and made a call. As late in the day as it was getting, getting what he wanted shouldn't be a problem.

It wasn't.

That solved, Terence followed Nora's truck down the hill, wondering. If an Oompa-Loompa tells you the boss is at home, but won't look you in the eye while he says it, in fact, stares a hole into the carpet instead, is the boss really at home?

* * *

><p>"Sweetheart!" Nora hopped from her truck, and threw her arms around her husband's neck. "What are you doing here?"<p>

"A mysterious phone call, from a mysterious Factory, released me from my bondage to another factory, early," was Noah's laughing reply, as he returned Nora's hug, his arm around her waist. He turned as Terence walked up. "Thanks, Terence."

"Don't mention it." Terence handed him the diagram. "Park the trucks according to this, and watch the loading. It shouldn't take us long to get back."

"Sure," nodded Noah. Terence's truck was already in position, but Nora hadn't seen the plan. Noah hopped in her truck, as his wife and Terence walked off.

* * *

><p>It wasn't long after that, that the limo pulled up, all black, and shiny. It wasn't a stretch limo, nothing really fancy, but it was a limo, luxurious and dark, its tinted windows privacy's guardian. Noah noticed it right away, it was hard to miss, joining the knot of the curious on the side street across the dump as it did, and he watched it, watching them.<p>

The crates went into the trucks, and the limo sat. Noah, consumed with the first, almost forgot about the last, save for a peculiar trend. The knot of the curious, its numbers growing and shrinking as their lives let them pause for a moment, or called them away, had quietly flowed like a starfish over sand, away from the limo; as if they thought the tide was going out, with the way to safety away from that car. It was weird.

Soon enough, Noah spied Nora and Terence returning, Charlie skipping at their side, and felt relief.

* * *

><p>It was worse than he had imagined: far worse. Dr. Wonka had been watching from the comfort of his limo for a while. At first glance the operation seemed like just another of his son's idiot schemes. The house being moved was a wreck, the people moving it were too young to know what they were doing, and the scarecrow monitoring the fiasco looked like he hadn't the energy to blow his nose. Coming here had been—no shocker when his son was involved—a waste of his time.<p>

Until, that is, he saw Terry, returning down the hill. They were far away, and the tint of the window made it hard to see, but with him was Mina, with The Boy, skipping by her side. The tears that sprang to his eyes made his vision worse, but there she was, slim, dark curls dancing on strong, if delicate shoulders, her head bent, swinging her arm to and fro, as she held her laughing son's hand, and he, hers. It was too much. Dr. Wonka felt his stomach twist, bile climbing to the back of his throat. His hands were fists, his breathing ragged. Escaping, he darted away from the window, his torso falling to the cool embrace of the upholstery on the far side of the limo.

"Are you alright, sir?"

"Yes," Dr. Wonka managed to gasp out, in a raspy voice, mortified. "Mind your own business, or I'll report you to your superiors."

The driver, his concern evaporating, turned his eyes away from the rearview mirror, and back to the car's bonnet. So choke on it, ya old fart.

The interruption was enough. Dr. Wonka put the back of his hand to the corner of his eyes, the moisture he found there humiliating. Of course it wasn't Mina … Mina was … older than this woman, much older. And it obviously wasn't The Boy. He'd stopped being a boy decades ago.

With wrinkled palms as dry and cool as the leather beneath him, Dr. Wonka pushed himself upright, sliding back over to the window. Cracking it, he peered out.

"How long has that been there?" asked Terence, not facing the limo, but indicating it with a flick of his eyes. They were the first words out of his mouth.

Noah didn't need the flick to know what Terence meant. "Showed up a little after you left. Do you think it's Willy?"

"No," Terence bit off. "Not his style." He dropped to a squat. "Charlie, why don't you and your Mum get on back to the Factory?" He looked up. "One of the trucks is loaded?"

"Both," answered Noah.

"Then both of you get going. Wait for me. I'll meet you up there."

Terence turned on his heel, and headed for the car.

Dr. Wonka shot back in the seat. These other people might not know who he was, but Terry did. This was no place to be seen lurking.

"Driver!"

The bark of alarm in the old fart's voice had the driver's immediate attention. "Yeess, ssiirrr," he drawled, as slowly as he could, to his client's distress, and his delight.

"Drive!"

"Of course, sir. Drive, sir. Where to, sir?" Still speaking slowly, he hadn't moved a muscle.

"I don't care where, just drive, and do it now, before that ruffian accosts this vehicle!"

Ruffian? Accosts? Hell, this vehicle? The driver put the car into gear, pulling away from the curb by inches, accelerating just enough to leave the alleged ruffian behind. For all his client's jitters, the guy looked harmless enough. With a derisive smirk lighting his face, the driver replayed the words. Just how old do you gotta be, to talk like that?

Terence watched the car pull away, frowning. The last thing he needed was another player, but this one, it was plain, had money. That narrowed the field, but without giving him any real answers. Currents were at work he needed to fathom. The uncertainty was making him edgy.

On the plus side, Willy had seen fit to spill the other spies' names, and Prodnose and Slugworth were two possible players with money. The first thing Terence had done when he'd shown George his shop this morning was google the two. They'd joined forces, and had their own candy factory. Was it them? One of them? Limos would be no stretch for either. Holy shit. The pun made him groan.

Trotting back across the dump, Terence rethought the juggling. It wasn't juggling. It was keeping plates spinning on sticks, and it was time to put the spin back on another one, before it toppled. Terence filled the supervising professor in on the planned all-nighter.

"D'you think anyone will stay? I'll pay cash to anyone who does."

The professor grinned. "How much?"

"Three hundred." Terence had no idea what arrangements the professor had made with his people, but the number sounded tempting to him.

"They'll be calling their friends."

"Just so they're not tripping over each other."

"I'll see they're not."

Terence nodded. "With luck, I'll be right back. If not, take your cues from the Buckets. They'll be working with you until I get back."

The professor nodded his understanding, and Terence jogged up the hill to the Factory.

* * *

><p>You never knew about these gates. Before he cracked his wrist for a second time, Terence put the brakes on. No worries though: the small gate opened like sugar melting. Terence hadn't needed to see what he hoped had happened when the Buckets arrived back at the Factory with Charlie, but he needed to know that it had.<p>

It hadn't.

The fallout was Charlie was off in the suite with his grandparents, doing his homework; his mother was fidgeting, its manifestation a waterless hand-washing routine; and his father, sanguine, not knowing the half of it, was keeping his view that everyone around him needed to take a deep breath, and chill, to himself.

With another plate about to topple, Terence lost no time organizing the light situation with Eshle and the mid-generation Buckets. That done, he then lost no time sending said parents on their way.

That left him in the grand, grey entrance hall, with its wide, red carpet, alone with Eshle. This situation had been sticky before. It would be sticky now. Terence dropped to the carpet and crossed his legs, his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled. He could feel the resistance.

"We gotta stop meeting like this, Eshle."

Eshle grinned, but stood straighter. Today was the first day since the move-in Willy hadn't made an appearance when Charlie returned from school. Eshle had no intention of answering what was coming next.

"Where's Mr. Wonka?"

Yup. That was the question, and Eshle wasn't gonna answer. If Willy didn't want finding, it was best not to find Willy. Terence, of all people, should know that.

Resistance, all right. His fingers still steepled, Terence re-grouped. He spent a minute or two studying the circles of light on the wall formed by the round, clerestory windows. They were a rude kind of clock, their height on the wall affected by the angle of the light filtering through them: sun high, circles lower; sun low, circles higher. The circles were like little suns themselves, their orbits moving light paintings, splashed upon the wall. As high as they were, it was getting late. Eshle seemed not to mind.

In the interval, Terence noticed the scents of the Factory, drifting on the air. He picked out lavender, and found it calming. It was a big Factory, and Willy could be anywhere. He might be nowhere. Terence tilted his head to look up at Eshle, and spoke very slowly.

"_Do_ you know where Willy is? Or don't you?"

The corner of Eshle's eye twitched. A muscle in his jaw clenched. But that was all.

Terence looked away. Eshle knew. The loyalty was as admirable as it was misplaced.

Sighing, Terence swept a hand toward the carpet that was prickling at his ankles.

"Would you care to join me?"

Eshle could do that. Being contrary was making him feel not himself, as if the air around him were losing its oxygen, making normal breathing insufficient, or as if his heart were weakening, his circulation losing traction. He sat down.

"Thank you." Blue eyes sought brown. "We've been here before, Eshle. I know you have your doubts, but let's work together."

Eshle stared past him, his eyes on a spot down the hall.

Terence thought about the bench he and Charlie had spent so much time on before Willy issued his invitation to the Bucket family. The man could disappear for days … weeks.

"You know all about last night. He was concerned this morning. Nora said he left the Chocolate Room abruptly. Now he's not here to see Charlie back safe. Doesn't any of this bother you?"

"He trusts you to see Charlie safe."

"You said it. He trusts me. So you trust me, and tell me where he is. You've known him longer, but I knew him earlier. He'd been through so much less then. He can pretend he's still like that when I'm around. That the world is still like that. I think that helps."

The circles of light on the wall moved a micrometer in the stillness. Terence tried again, a new note in his voice.

"This is no time for Willy to disappear for a week or two."

A small hand fell on his shoulder.

"We think he's in his room," Doris said.

Eshle shoulders collapsed with relief. It hadn't been him to snitch, but he'd known Terence was right. Who else had Willy told them had run of the Factory? No one. It was only a technicality that Terence didn't know it, yet. But no one was excepted from this exception.

"Aren't you the quiet one. That doesn't tell me much," observed Terence, twisting where he sat. "They're all his rooms."

The Oompa-Loompas giggled, Doris taking a seat.

"Yeah, but we mean _his _room. You can't go there," Eshle said.

"That's true," confirmed Doris. "No one can."

"Why not?"

"It's a rule. About the only rule there is," said Eshle.

"The others change too much to be rules," explained Doris.

"What if the Factory were about to explode? Wouldn't he want you to warn him?"

"He said if he's in his room, and the Factory is about to explode, we should leave our carry-ons, proceed to the nearest exit, which may be behind us, and run for our lives."

Terence giggled.

"What if he gets sick?"

"Then he'll get better without our help." Eshle was adamant.

Terence thought it was all idiotic, but these questions were fun.

"What if he dies?"

Doris caught the sly mocking in Terence's tone, laughing a little as she answered.

"He said if he dies up there, we should wait until three weeks after the smell disappears, and then, and only then, we can go up and check."

'Up there', Doris had said. It was somewhere high in the Factory. Terence grinned.

"Where would I be to catch the smell?"

Everyone giggled, but the Oompa-Loompas didn't answer. They were serious he respect the rule, and Terence could understand that. Everyone needed some privacy, and Willy would be one to take that to the nth degree.

Terence gave in. "I'll respect the rule, but I'm getting him outta there. He has a house to move, and I'm not doing it alone. Where would I go?"

"It's above his office," they chimed in unison.

"Then Heigh-ho," grinned Terence. "It's off to work I go."

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading, enjoy your day, and if you'd care to, please review. I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended._

_Thank you, thank you, thank you, reviewers:__** dionne dance**, __**Ifwecansparkle, LinkWonka88.** I'd like also to thank you, what with my glacial update schedule, for sticking with me. Lately, my best intentions come to naught, I'm afraid. I quite enjoyed writing the last chapter, the more so because I never expected to write a scene with Willy and Libby in the same room. I hope y'all enjoy this chapter. _

_To shed some light on the random _Airplane! _reference: _Airplane! _is an amazingly funny spoof of aviation disaster movies. For a low-brow movie, I recommend it highly. One of its running jokes is a play on the same sounding word 'surely', and name, 'Shirley', like so:  
><em>_"Surely, you can't mean that!"  
><em>_"I do mean that, and don't call me Shirley." _


	26. An Unexpected Encounter

The Great Glass Elevator dutifully responded to Terence's call, while he quietly fumed. Heigh ho, heigh ho, the phrase that meant 'office' in Great Glass Elevator speak—that would be the buttons, don'tcha know—with that place the only place in his Factory Willy said he felt like he was working when he was in it. What bullshit! He lived above it! He must be in there half the time!

Terence hunted for the button, humming _Crimson Tide's '_Roll Tide' under his breath. This wasn't a submarine, it was a glass, sometimes flying, he thought, Elevator, but the bars Terence hummed had a relentless, driving rhythm that suited his mood. He'd hum almost anything to squelch the other tune the words 'heigh ho' brought to mind from getting inside his head. He hated that tune.

Terence wasn't finding the button he wanted. This Elevator had scores of buttons, but one thing that was clear—other than the Elevator—was that this wasn't the Elevator that had taken him to France. Exasperation won out.

"Are you two coming?"

Doris and Eshle, flanking the door, were imitating garden gnomes. They knew where the button was. They could jolly well make themselves useful, and his inviting them would save them the awkwardness of coming up with an excuse to tag along. Willy's office was no where near the Factory's entrance, and full of secrets.

"Not us," said Eshle.

Terence straightened.

"Who then?"

They exchanged a glance.

"Just you then," answered in unison.

"Seriously?"

They nodded.

Terence dropped to a crouch. This was evidence the trip to the Inventing Room last night hadn't been a fluke.

"Then help me out, would ya? Where, in the name of cacao beans, is this button?"

Two fingers pointed in the general direction, and with the field narrowed, Terence found it. Hans Zimmer's 'Roll Tide' sounded even more appropriate once he'd pushed it, and the Elevator took off.

* * *

><p>"Left, right, right, left, right, straight I tell you … now left."<p>

It was the last in a long string of haphazard commands, but if Dr. Wonka thought his directions were random, the instant he sensed, and then saw, the approaching hole in the block, his real commander emerged: his subconscious.

"Pull over."

The defeat in his irascible client's voice persuaded the driver to do it, without the planned overshoot. The next word from the old man surprised him.

"Please?"

Dr. Wonka turned away, lest his driver's reaction dismay him. Even to his ears, the sweetness in his tone sounded out-of-practice. When had he forgotten, when it came to the hoi polloi, charming was the ticket?

The limo slid smoothly to a stop. Dr. Wonka rolled the window down to eye-level, peering at a sight he hadn't seen for years.

* * *

><p>The quiet in the hall was eerie. Terence advanced to the great double doors of Willy's office, hearing only the sound of his footfalls and breathing. It wasn't until they weren't around that you realized just how ubiquitous the Oompa-Loompa presence in the Factory really was. Willy might be on to something with this privacy idea.<p>

Terence's palm found the coolness of the door's handle, his fingers curling round it as he added pressure. It gave easily, and the door yielded. He stuck his head through the opening he'd made, his fingertips lingering on the handle. It wouldn't do to barge right in. What if Willy were sitting at his desk? Terence felt a smidgeon chagrined. He could have knocked first.

The room was as quiet as the hall; more so, in fact. The room's thick carpet absorbed all sound, and the eerie feeling was kept alive by the diffused light, leaking in from the fifteen foot tall, floor-to-ceiling window that dominated two-thirds of one wall. Straightening up, Terence slipped through the door on tip-toe, closing it softly.

His first glance told him the room was empty, but that was deceiving. His body might be absent, but Willy's presence was everywhere, not least in his famous initial. That initial floated nearly floor-to-ceiling in the frosted glass squares of the window. Turned on its side, the cursive trademark Wonka 'W' was like back-lit buttercream icing, white against white, a mosaic of strategically sized squares only slightly more frosted than the squares making up the rest of the window. The effect was grand, but subtle. Like an impressionist painting, the whole was best appreciated from a distance, and like a mirage, the 'W' waxed and waned with changing light intensities. In this light, it looked ghostly.

Frowning at his fanciful turn of thoughts, Terence moved to the wealth of books opposite, knowing their grandeur outdid the lone window. He had purposefully stayed as far from them as he could the last time he was here, but this time was different. The shelves that held them stretched wall-to-wall, and like the window, they also climbed floor-to-ceiling. A tapering, rolling ladder gave access to the otherwise unreachable. But they weren't books. They were Willy's secret recipes, the plans for his Factory, and the designs for his machines, concealed in magnetized file boxes, hidden in plain sight, with leather spines to make them look like books.

Reaching randomly toward the array, his fingers poised to touch one, Terence wondered if he could take it from the shelf. On his last visit to this office, with Charlie, before the move, Willy had said they were triple locked: individually, to each other, and to the shelf itself. But not all the time. Charlie had picked one up. A millimeter from the try, Terence dropped his hand. Willy wore gloves. No oils from _his_ hands would be on these spines. Terence flexed his fingers. The oils, bound to transfer from his ungloved hands, might give his curiosity away. Hm.

The earthy smell of the leather enticed. Terence leant forward. If he dare not touch, he could still read. On most of the spines the writing was in Latin, but at eye-level—his eye-level—interspersed, a few volumes—noticeable for their thinness, and red, embossed, block lettering—were in English.

'ARE' Terence read. His eyes moved to the next red-lettered file, a foot or so away. 'NOT' he read. Terence stepped back, smiling. He hadn't started at the beginning. He moved back to his left. Sure enough. 'THESE' he found on another volume, and he started again. 'THESE ARE NOT YOURS' the volumes spelled out. Terence gave a rue chuckle, and looked for more. On other shelves, he found more, in more languages. 'Éloignez Loin de les Étagères' read one grouping. 'Tun Nicht Einmal Darüber Nachdenken', read another. About to give it up, he found another in English, almost dead center on the shelves. 'SCRAM!' it read.

"Not without you, Willy," Terence muttered.

* * *

><p>Space would have to wait. Willy parked the Great Glass, racy version, with its companions in the Elevator Maintenance Room, pleased to see dozens of Oompa-Loompas swarming the Elevator, cleaning solutions and cloths in hand, even before he stepped out of it.<p>

"Why, thank you," Willy squeaked, with a sunny smile, as he turned back to leave the Elevator with an affectionate pat. "With this many of you at it, you'll have the dirt off my darling in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

As pleased to see Willy happy as Willy was happy to see them, the Oompa-Loompas giggled together as they swabbed away.

"Carry on, dears," Willy called, with a wave of his hand, as he sauntered from the room.

* * *

><p>The most likely door to the floor above had no framework around it. It blended into its wall with only the shadow of its cutout to give it away. Terence wouldn't call it concealed, as much as he'd call it discreet. The old drafting table had stood before it the last time he'd been here, but with the move, that piece of furniture had relocated to 'Reception'.<p>

Without the table in front of it the door was more obvious. It had no doorknob, most likely there was some kind of spring activation to it, but that didn't matter. The door didn't budge when Terence tried it. Why should it? The room he suspected it led to was off limits. Terence had assured Doris and Eshle he wouldn't attempt it, and if he hadn't exactly kept his promise, he told himself he'd let the moment carry him away. If it had worked, why not? Test assumptions. Willy would be all over that. But it hadn't worked, and it was time to look around for something that would. Terence moved away, and began a prowl.

* * *

><p>Reception was a ways away. He could walk, or call one of the Factory's Great Glasses. Willy twirled his walking stick, then tapped the floor. What the heck … he could do both. The sound of his heels, clicking along the floor, joined the tap of his walking stick, as he rounded a curve, and saw Doris, one foot flat, the other frozen in mid-step, looking for all the world like a fly, caught on flypaper. It was odd.<p>

"Heya, Doris. Where's Charlie?"

Her mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. After a second or two, Willy tilted his head, and grinned at her like a crow sizing up a shiny trinket … but no, make that a shiny lure. Now she looked like a fish, freshly landed. Willy waited for her to recover from whatever had caused her shock, but it wasn't happening. At the rate the blood was draining from her face, in a minute, she'd be as pale as he. It was very odd.

"Boo," Willy tried next, in a normal tone, having raised both hands and done his best to wiggle all his fingers with one hand holding the walking stick. That went okay, but it didn't help. The gulping was slowing, but the paling was unabated.

Taking a step forward, with a swirl of his hips and the help of his free hand, Willy launched the skirt of his long, bouclé greatcoat to billowing, and sat down before her, legs crossed, the black folds of his coat a lake of fabric, fanning out beside and behind him. He balanced his walking stick across his lap, and leaned toward her, his hair swinging gently.

"Are you in love with that cardigan, Doris? Cuz it's kinda frumpy. I could fix ya up with somethin' way cooler." And then he giggled, because a cardigan is a sweater.

Doris managed a half smile, and lowered her foot.

"Charlie okay?"

She nodded.

"Cuz I'm serious about that sweater. I could fix ya right up. Where is he?"

"Doing his homework, in his room."

Willy sat back, wrinkling his nose. "Ew. That school had him all day. Isn't that enough? I'll go rescue him." Willy made to get up.

"We thought you were in _your_ room."

Willy's answering giggle was brief, and staccato, but full of satisfaction, as he settled back down, Doris's pallor partially explained. He lifted a brow. She knew what he meant.

"Eshle and I."

"I'm kidding about the cardigan, ya know."

Doris tugged at the hem of her sweater.

"Terence has gone to get you out of your room."

So that was the rest of it. Willy considered, and Doris waited on pins and needles.

"It doesn't look frumpy… on you."

Doris stamped the foot she'd lowered. "Of course it does, Willy, but look how much more dashing you look in comparison!"

Willy's laughter was quick and genuine. He reached out two fingers, to lift her hand, holding it as best he could.

"Please tell me you love your cardigan, and not that you dress staidly so I can look dashing. I doubt I could live with myself."

"I love my cardigan! What about Terence?"

"What about him?" Willy grinned a grin as mischievous as any Oompa-Loompa could mange. "He succeeded before he started. I'm out of my room. But I'd best go collect him. He must be getting awfully bored, hanging around my office." With a glint in his eyes, the tilt to Willy's head was back, his eyebrow ascending. "That is, I presume, where he's really gone?"

Doris gave a quick nod.

"Thought so. Help me up."

Willy needed no help getting up, and rose to his feet without Doris feeling the slightest pull. But it was a gesture that told her all was well, and that she and Eshle had been right in their judgement, letting Terence go. If she wasn't mistaken, Willy seemed relieved. Once he was up, he waved her farewell, and sashayed away with a spring in his step.

Doris matched it, in the other direction. For its rarity, Willy in his room during the day was an ominous sign, but today, out of it, he was better than ever.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading, enjoy your day, and if you'd care to, please review. I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended._

_Thank you, thank you, reviewers:__** 07kattho**__**,** and** Linkwonka88. **Making your day makes my day, and I appreciate your tolerance__. As for me, when you're watching a show you'd never normally watch, that has nothing to do with Willy Wonka, and Willy Wonka is randomly mentioned at its end—as has just happened—it is probably a sign to stop messing with this, and post it. So post it I shall, and get on with the next chapter._


	27. A Little Shorthand

Nora nosed her truck through the gates, behind Noah's. The lights, stands, wiring, and generators that filled them both would turn night into day. The resources they represented, available at the drop of a hat, filled her head. Willy Wonka had everything. The blood left her knuckles as her hands tightened on the wheel. In no time, the move would be complete. The thought made her dizzy.

Terence had been wonderful when she'd voiced her concerns. He'd listened, with his hands in his pockets, head down, not interrupting, hearing every word. When she'd finished, he'd been silent. No telling her how to feel, no twenty/twenty hindsight, no telling her what she should do next. It was so unlike a man, but so refreshing … like Noah. Terence had asked her to fill him in on her evening with Dr. Grant as well, and she had, to more silence.

As they neared the school, she'd broken the silence herself, and asked his opinion.

His hands still in his pockets, Terence had looked up.

'Search me. For today, we're okay if he meets Charlie,' he'd said.

That was a little maddening. Willy hadn't met Charlie, and Nora had an inkling Terence had ideas. She swerved to avoid a jay-walker, hoping the items in the back of the truck survived the jostling. That man should pay more attention! So should she, Nora reflected, eyes back on the road. All these unknowns were distracting her, threatening to turn deadly something as dead simple as driving. Then she had it! She'd reduce the task to its basics. Make it as simple as the simple book Willy had quoted to her last night.

"See the back of Noah's truck," Nora recited out loud, her foot pushing smartly on the accelerator to catch up with it.

The light on the post half-way down the hill turned yellow, and tail-lights flared ahead of her.

"See Noah brake. Brake, Noah, brake."

The light turned red.

"See Noah stop. Stop, Noah, stop." The chant amused her. She kept it up, her voice becoming sing-song, and alive. "See me stop. Stop, me, stop. Stop, stop, stop."

This was fun. Nora checked the side-mirror as she waited for the light to change, one hand on the wheel, one hand in her lap. "See the factory in the side-view mirror. Hello, factory, hello."

With Willy's Factory filling the mirror, his words came back to her: 'a book any four-and-a-half, almost five'… the number he'd told her was so specific… Nora sat up with a gasp, her mouth an 'O', the hand in her lap flying to her lower lip. A four-and-a-half, almost five year old… that wasn't so! That book was a first grade reader, a book for six and seven year olds! Dr. Grant's words joined Willy's, ricocheting around her skull: 'he's never mentioned his mother, ever…'

Nora's heart was racing, because it couldn't be true, but maybe it was, and the light was about to turn green. She needed to calmly drive, but if she was right, Willy had told her something about his mother last night, or at least, about when she had left… when he was four-and-a-half, almost five years old.

The light hadn't changed, and Nora's mind was racing as fast as her heart. She'd asked Willy how he stayed so cheerful. He'd known what she meant: in light of the setbacks in his past. She'd not asked when they'd begun, but he'd told her. She'd had no idea he'd answered her question so throughly, but she could see through the shorthand now. Is that what Charlie could do? See through the shorthand? Because filling in the spaces, what Willy had said was, 'I was precocious, and loved reading. When I was four-and-a-half, almost five years old, my mother left, and life got hard. I escaped'—what was the word the book he had quoted had used? 'Run'. That was it! Well, she'd change it… 'ran' fit—'I ran to the worlds of my books.'

The light turned green, and Noah's truck began to move. Nora didn't need the coincidence of the changing light to know she was right. Terence had gotten to know Willy through his books. She was humbled by the confidence, but if Willy had taken a chance on her, she knew it was only because she was Charlie's mother.

As her truck moved forward, the honk from the car behind her, trying to get her into gear, and the growl of her own engine, erased some of her elation. Willy'd said she was a quick study, but Nora, wondering if she'd hurt Willy's feelings, bit her lower lip. This was the first time, as aloof as Willy always presented himself, that Nora had considered he _had _feelings. She'd understood so easily the shorthand that meant he was planning to give Charlie his factory, while missing so completely what he was sharing with her about himself.

* * *

><p>Clicking was gonna be a problem. The sound filled the hall that led to his office, and he hadn't gone two feet. Two feet! Willy raised spider-silk gloved fingers to pursed lips, stifling his laughter. Sneaking up on Terence while he was sleeping was one thing; sneaking up on him while he was awake was quite another. Willy unconsciously touched his wrist, the slight soreness a souvenir of the lesson learned last night. If he got it done this time, he'd stay at least an arm's length clear until Terence knew he was there.<p>

Willy bent down, and slipped off his boots.

* * *

><p>Seeing Mina again … not Mina … but someone who looked so much like her … Dr. Wonka didn't know whether it was the past or the present that pulled him from his limo. The click of the latch on the car's door, announcing he was opening it, surprised him as much as his driver.<p>

"I'll just be a minute."

"Yes, sir."

The driver left the motor running, for the warmth. Starting in his very bones, this place was making him cold.

Out of the limo, Dr. Wonka tipped his head, the better to see the scars in the surrounding architecture—save for some slight weathering—as fresh today as they were on the day he moved his house. What a coup! Compare that with The Boy, and his pathetic little team, at that dilapidated shack! They couldn't begin to match his feat! The smile that split his face was as cold and empty as the new moon.

The scars in the earth were smooth now, the lot landscaped. Dr. Wonka scraped across the sidewalk, halting at its edge. How pathetic was that? The space was too small for a park: the shrubs and plantings only made it more obvious a house should stand here. Dr. Wonka didn't wonder for a minute who'd done it. The trees along the back of the property stood like guards. The bleeding-heart responsible could only be The Boy.

Dr. Wonka turned his eyes to what had once been the garden, a sudden gust of wind catching and stinging his face. His hand went to his cheek, touching the spot. It had felt like a slap. If it was, he could guess who it was from. She had always been all about energy. Whose knows what form her energy was taking today… it might be from her, or it might just be the wind. Whatever, whoever, it was, it served him right, for being here. He'd always known better than to come back. But here he was, and he knew he wasn't leaving anytime soon. He'd make the most of this little detour; use the mistake to refresh his memory, hone his focus. Dr. Wonka stepped back to the curb.

* * *

><p>The thumping noise was disconcerting; not least because he knew it wasn't his heart. Willy stood in the hall in front of his office doors, listening to one side of a tennis match. THWACK! Silence. Skerschlap! Silence. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Time to put his boots back on. He wasn't gonna sneak up on whatever this was.<p>

* * *

><p>Comparing the positions of the other stoops, in his mind's eye, Dr. Wonka estimated where the steps of his stoop had met the sidewalk. He moved in, searching. Ah, there it was! The worn depression he knew he'd find, shadowed in the concrete. His hand went to his brow, thumb and fingers spread. Remembering, he rubbed his temples. All those patients, up and down all those steps, all funneled to the same beginning and ending spot, day after day.<p>

Dr. Wonka dropped his hand and looked up, imagining his younger self at his door, opening it to an unexpected knock. There Mina stood, the first time he'd laid eyes on her. A mousey little thing; one of those community college girls, he'd thought. She was nothing to look at, really: small bones; too thin to please; unfashionably short; unfashionably pale; but her sparkling eyes, the deep blue of a clear mountain sky, and thick, wavy, shoulder length hair, irretrievably marred by its depressing choc-o-late—he hated that word—brown color, cried out to be brought under control.

'Do you have an appointment?' he'd asked, knowing she didn't, the disinterest in his tone implying the lack of that prerequisite was reason enough to leave.

'No,' she'd answered, in a lilting voice annoying for its musicality. "But I've got a dilly of a toothache. Can you help me?'

Help her? He'd thought she wasn't much, but in the time she'd stood before him, the life bubbling beneath the surface, animating the very air around her as she spoke, meant he couldn't look away. He'd nodded, and not ten minutes later, he'd lost his heart.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading, enjoy your day, and if you'd care to, please review. I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended._

_Thank you reviewers:__** dionne dance, **__**Linkwonka88, Alibi Nonsense** and **Ifwecansparkle**. It's taken me a bit of time to get up this update, but your taking your time as you do to comment, means a lot to me. Thank you also to those of you who have made this story a favorite, and to those who are following. _


	28. That's For Me…

"Terence!"

It was the double doors behind Terence that Willy threw open, the surprise triggering a sputtering choking fit: Terence had just that second popped a meteor shaped candy into his mouth. He'd set up his vigil facing the only door in the office without any trim surrounding it—it lacked a knob, for that matter—set discreetly in the far wall, certain that door was right. The antique drafting table that had stood before it, the last time he was here with Charlie, had moved to Reception. Its absence made the likely door all the more obvious.

Sweeping into the room, Willy's eyes darted about like minnows. It was fine to tell the Oompa-Loompas to let Terence explore on his own, but the reality of finding someone in his office not him or an Oompa-Loompa was freaky. With a glance, Willy assured himself that his wall of files was unharmed, before strangle-ly noises, that might be coughing, led his eyes to the sofa in front of his desk. They got there in time to see Terence catch something falling from the ceiling. It was kinda neat—Terence was still coughing when he caught it—and it explained the skerschlap sound, Terence's palm, but why were pieces of whatever falling from his ceiling? There was nothing wrong with it when he left. Brows furrowed, Willy tilted his head, evaluating the heights, seeing nothing amiss. He soon gave it up. Fizzy Lifting would sort it out if it needed sorting—so much more fun than ladders, that stuff—but Terence needed attention.

"Ya gonna live?"

Terence nodded, sitting up from his prone position on the sofa, his coughs slowing, but hanging on.

Shrugging off his greatcoat, Willy let it settle lengthwise on the carpet. He moved to the shelves behind the sidebar, where his favorite top hat and Nerd filled walking-stick rested, never taking his eyes off Terence.

"If you don't say something, I'm coming over there and giving you the Heimlich maneuver."

Terence nodded again, tapping his chest himself, as he set the saucer of candies he'd had balanced there on the low table in front of him.

"Willy!" he gasped.

"That's something… Why are you here?"

Terence judged Willy's tone too imperious not to put him under some pressure.

"Why didn't you meet Charlie?"

Willy frowned, but softened.

"I asked you first."

"Anyone you know own a limo?"

Willy took off the silk top hat he was wearing and collapsed it.

"You mean right this second? Other than me? Nuh-ohhh… And I doubt mine runs. It's very old. It's a 1958 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud Empress Saloon. I like it. But I don't get out much." He beamed, eyes widening for a moment. "It's silver, and it has a great, big, shiny, purple 'W' on it. Did your limo look like that?"

Terence shook his head. "No, it was black. One of your spy friends, perhaps?"

The gleam and matching grin that lit Willy's eyes and face was diabolical, as he exchanged walking-sticks and headed for his desk, his favorite top hat dangling from a hooked finger.

"My _spy_ friends, Terence? Are you saying you own a limo? I'd've never guessed," Willy giggled, "and if you're saying you say you own a limo, why are you asking me?"

Willy's irreverence merited ignoring for the moment. His curiosity getting the better of him, Terence got up and walked over to the counter below the shelves Willy had just left. The hat and stick lying there when Terence arrived in the office were two of the things that had convinced him Willy was around. Those two items were now proved misleading, but this wasn't over. Terence had seen the walking-stick lying there now before: on his trip with Willy to Chartres. And a week or so after that, he'd seen its twin at Dr. Grant's house. Keeping one eye on Willy, Terence picked up the stick and examined its embossed, golden top. Satisfied, he laid it back down. It was the same one, all right.

Willy seemed not to mind the invasion, only raising a brow, and that for not long, as he settled himself. Terence wheeled 'round. It was time to set Willy straight.

"I do not own a limo, Willy, dear chap, and forgive me for failing to say your 'chocolate-making' spy friends, but I mention this because, as of this afternoon, you've got a limo monitoring your moving project. Care to get serious about this now?"

"No. Maybe. You don't say?"

Distracted, Willy was examining the reason he'd gone to his desk: the partially dismembered paddle ball toy lying on top of it. The empty end of the elastic dangled from his fingers, its expected tethered ball absent without leave.

"Is that what you have in your hand?"

Terence tossed him the ball.

"You broke it."

"No, the ball's not broken, and I can fix the toy. Doris and Eshle said you were in your room, it's off-limits, and that's the only thing I could find in this room that I thought might get you out of that one."

Willy tossed Terence the ball, and Terence gave him the demonstration the exchange asked for, throwing the ball against the ceiling fifteen feet above them, catching it, and doing it again. Finished, he tossed the ball back to Willy.

Contemplating the show, Willy turned the ball over in his hand, his mood changed.

"That, I daresay, would have done it. That, is amazingly annoying. It was annoying listening to it in the hall. I thought I was listening to half a tennis match, but without the shrieking. The shrieking makes me not fond of tennis. But I admire your method. And that you did that lying down… with a saucer on your chest."

Terence smiled at the compliment to his hand/eye co-ordination. Willy being nice was nice.

"I had to keep it interesting. I wasn't getting any results."

"I wasn't here. Which is why I didn't meet Charlie. Did he mind?"

Leaning against the counter, one leg crossed at the ankle, Terence shrugged, folding his arms across his chest.

"I wasn't here either. I was trying to find out who was in the limo."

Not daring to disturb the testy display of defensive body language, Willy waited.

"It drove off before I could."

Willy stowed the parts of the deconstructed toy in the center drawer where Terence had found it. It was the only drawer in Willy's desk Terence had found unlocked. As the drawer clicked shut, Willy met his gaze.

"So there ya go, sport. Limo gone… problem solved."

* * *

><p>There'd be a problem if the walk-up couldn't pay, and that singularly sticky wicket was Dr. Wonka's first concern. As thin as she was, and as last-season as her clothes were, Dr. Wonka had his doubts. He wasn't running a charity. But when he'd asked, she'd produced a wad of cash, and a promise of more if it wasn't enough. He'd thumbed through the crumpled bills, and led her to his surgery. Now that relief was near, she was fast succumbing to the pain. The rest of the particulars could wait.<p>

Offering the slightly built brunette a steadying hand, Dr. Wonka settled her into the examination chair. Teeth were what he lived for, and the excitement of a new set, set before him for his avid perusal, was setting in. He dreamed of making his thriving practice the most famous in the land—an endless supply of new conquests—and he wanted the story this woman told the world of her experience here to be a happy one.

Thrumming with anticipation, Dr. Wonka picked up his mouth mirror and explorer.

"Now open."

He waited a beat, while she complied. Delving forward, he murmured the next.

"Let's see what the damage is, shall we?"

* * *

><p>They both knew the problem wasn't solved, and having removed the toy, Willy placed his hands and forearms flat on his desk.<p>

"It's not my chocolate making spies, who you are so bent on making my friends, in that limo," Willy said. "_Those_ despicable spies know they're one bad mood… and that would be my bad mood… away from bankruptcy, and trust me, those cads are seriously not interested in bankruptcy."

Terence uncrossed his arms.

"You mean Prodworth's?"

Willy touched his forehead to his desk, and came up laughing.

"You were paying attention this morning! They got together. Don't you love that? Don't you love the name? I prefer Noseslug's myself, it's so much closer to the mark of their quality, but there's no accounting for taste," more giggles, "well, _I_ have Taste Accounting, but _I'm_ myself." The giggles stopped. "Neither of them is worth a poke, much less a prod."

"What about Ficklegruber?"

Willy sat up straighter, and pushed away from his desk, his voice hollow, almost a monotone.

"I have no quarrel with him. He fell on his candy thermometer… quit the business, he did. It's a price I wouldn't have asked of him, knowing firsthand as I do what that feels like."

Willy looked off into space, and Terence could only imagine Willy imagining the Factory closed, but Willy's mood changed again, and the vacancy vanished. His hand found the drawer he had just shut.

"You said you could fix this."

The parts of the paddle ball toy were back on the desk.

"I can."

"Then fix it."

"Now?"

"Please. Sit here."

Willy stood, placing the top hat he'd set on his desk in its place on his head.

Terence felt more than odd taking the chair behind Willy's desk. Talk about off-limits … that would be it. Willy was serious though, he was holding the back of the chair anticipating Terence's arrival, and beginning to look impatient. Not entirely sure, Terence nevertheless obliged, drifting over to take up the offer.

With Terence suitably ensconced, Willy turned on his heel, and walked to the right-hand side of his wall of files. He pressed a recessed switch, bathing the files in purplish-blue light.

"While you fix it," Willy said, "you can tell me why you're really here. The limo is gone, and gone it would stay, if you'd gone and stayed down there. Instead, you've gone and come up here. Why?" Willy paused. "You didn't touch these."

Terence turned from his task at the desk, and sucked in his breath. The wall of light was striking. He'd thought Willy might have something like this lurking up his sleeve, and the toy was proving more trouble than it was worth to fix. Terence held it up.

"Are you attached to this? Pun intended. The wall looks nifty."

"Thank you. No strings here. Pun returned. Didn't you notice the dust all over the thing? Once you master it, the repeated smacking noise it makes is annoying."

Terence had to smile. Content with everything he'd done till now, especially not messing with the files, Terence put the paddle back down. "Then consider it a goner. How do you know I didn't touch them?"

Willy made a half-turn to the wall, and with his left hand, took his sweet time removing his right glove. With the side of his middle finger, he smudged the spine of the nearest file. The mark shone black. He turned a sideways glance to Terence, awaiting his reaction.

"Thought so. Not wearing gloves the way you do, I could've used my cuff," Terence grinned, making light of the gloveless hand, "but you do wear gloves, and it occurred to me that might be one of the other eighty-nine reasons why. If you had a way to detect them, oils would be a dead giveaway, and I figured you might. So I was tempted, but a cuff is not as foolproof as a glove, and I let them be. Besides," laughed Terence, "In absentia, you told me to SCRAM!"

Willy smiled. "So you saw that." He put his glove back on, rubbed away the smudge with his elbow, doused the purplish-blue light, and walked over to the window. As he neared the desk, Terence misread his goal. The chair's leather creaked as Terence started to rise, but without looking at him, Willy made a motion for Terence to stay where he was. Terence sank back.

Reaching the window, Willy stood silently, his chin sunk on his chest, his walking-stick clasped by both hands, held behind his back. His fingers were twirling it slowly, an outward manifestation of his inward thoughts. At the desk, Terence leaned forward. Making light of the demonstration had led to impasse. Terence could fix that. He pushed aside the broken toy.

"I knew you had hands, Willy," he said, softly. "We all do. I've seen them before. You never wore gloves when I knew you."

Willy sighed, not turning. "I've said it before. You know me now. So let's pretend I don't already know what you're going to say. What's the real flap about?"

Willy listened, while Terence told him.

* * *

><p>The limo was waiting. It could go on waiting. Dr. Wonka, lost in his memories, was about to lose himself in this lot. A weak sun lit his steps as he moved off the sidewalk, pacing off the length of the entry hall, turning to stand where his surgery had stood. Mina had opened her mouth, and he'd lost himself in her teeth. They were perfect. The most perfect teeth he'd ever seen. He'd fallen in love with them, then and there, his mouth mirror showing him beauty he'd never imagined—beauty he'd never dreamed possible—his explorer exploring the flawless: shape, strength, enamel, color. The glorious symmetry of the tubal orientation in her dentin he could only envision, but envision it he did, his head spinning with the whirling shapes in his imagination. Stunned, he'd sat back, his breathing ragged.<p>

"Is it that bad?"

Her pale hand had gone to her jaw, tapered fingers gently rubbing the hurt, afraid of pushing harder, afraid of the pain.

"No, my lovely," Dr. Wonka had sighed. "I've never seen finer."

Uncomprehending, her expression had clouded. Dr. Wonka could guess what she must be thinking, the silly twit: she wasn't his lovely, the pain was terrible, she wouldn't be his lovely, he was old enough to be her father, but Dr. Wonka cared nothing for her confusion, or her thoughts. He'd deal with the gum infection she suffered from, and suffer himself to make these magnificent teeth his own.

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.__ Thanks for reading, please review, and enjoy the rest of your day._

_Thank you reviewers, **dionne dance**, and **Linkwonka88**. Your encouragement is most welcome. Of course there's only one thing Dr. Wonka would fall in love with in a heartbeat, and now you know, if you hadn't guessed already._


	29. To Know…

Willy listened. For about ten sentences. Then, without turning from the window, a gloved hand detached itself from his walking-stick and found its way into the air above his head, wrist and fingers fluttering, like a colorful private signal flag, in a nothing wind.

"Skip all that. I was there. Answer me this," he asked, falling into a chant. "When, did I, lose you, to 'we'?"

The interruption caught Terence off guard. He was in the process of settling in, his feet destined for the top of Willy's desk—that oughta teach Willy not to put him there—but also because if Willy showed no reaction to Nora's misgivings, a distinct possibility, Terence felt pretty sure he'd show a reaction to where Terence had put his feet. A strategy to keep things moving, but Willy's query short-circuited the plan. Arresting the stretch, Terence sat up, his feet re-finding the carpet.

"Say again? When did what? We?"

Willy turned, his walking-stick snapping to his side, his voice as crisp and fresh as chilled iceberg lettuce, and like the stems of those leaves, a touch bitter.

"Oui, old chap, I said, 'we', and not meaning 'small'. Ring a bell? As in you lately saying, 'We all do'. As in, 'I do what I do, and 'WE' don't like it?'" For half a beat, Willy turned his head to the side, upper lashes meeting lower, before he swung back, implacable, eyes full open, irises glittering like shards of deepest amethyst. "I've asked you why you're here… politely, and more than once. This is what you're choosing to tell me." Willy cocked his head, eyes narrowed in an otherwise expressionless face. "Limo aside, I conclude you've become the paren's proxy, sent here by her to lecture me on my perceived paucities."

Placing curled fingers on the edge of the desk as he listened, Terence sat straighter, each word a deeper sting. A lackey was he? Willy was calling him a lackey? Like hell! Willy was talking about taking sides, and if Terence were hearing him right, Willy was putting only himself on his. What the… cursing embargo be damned… fuck was _that_? Willy was as wrong as he was insulting.

Before he could think any further, the stab of anger building in the pit of Terence's stomach forced him to rise, the desk an unwanted barrier. The sourness choking the back of his throat made words impossible. Out of the corner of his eye, Terence caught a flash of the whiteness of his knuckles as he pushed against the desk. It slowed him down some, the intensity he saw there shocking him with its quick development, even as he felt the heat of a flush creeping up his neck. Terence barely recognized himself—no one got to him—but it was the morphing look on Willy's face that brought Terence back to himself. He recognized too well the baleful stare of the hooded eyes, the partially bared teeth, the corners of the lips set in an involuntary parody of a cheerful grin. Dredged from their long ago past, it was exactly the look lent by the braces. In the airy office, Terence could almost see the dull, metallic glint of that sinister, demonic halo. It was a look as intimidating as it was freakish, and back in the day, it had worked a treat at keeping people at bay.

Recovering, Terence made a strangled sound in the back of his throat that could have been a laugh. That look hadn't worked on him then—he'd gone right past it—and it wouldn't work on him now. But it almost had, as caught up as he'd let himself get in other people's interpretations of Willy. And it reminded him, coming as it did from those long gone years, of what was at the heart of the matter at hand… the heart of this conflict. And that conflict wasn't between Willy and him, however much its repressed malevolence might try to manifest itself that way today.

With a slow exhale, Terence relaxed his hands and spread his arms, willing his fingers to straighten, his fingertips splayed on the leather desktop as he leaned on them for balance. The stance let him appreciate, for the first time, exactly where he was. He should have realized it sooner. He was in Willy's office, behind Willy's desk, sitting in Willy's chair, which in an office, is the ultimate position of power. Willy had put him there, specifically, and this simmering strife was no doubt the reason. With a recognizable chuckle, Terence lowered himself back to his sitting position. He had no doubt now, as unpleasant as this situation might be, as unpleasant as this situation might get, he was welcome here, and wherever this situation might lead, he need not fear speaking his mind. With a smile and shake of his head, Terence lifted his hands in brief appreciation, before folding them calmly on the desk in front of him.

"It does sound that way, doesn't it?"

Willy closed his mouth, his face slack.

"It isn't, though, and I shouldn't have gone there. You said this would be hard for you. I had no idea what you really meant. But thanks for this. I've never seen a more subtle way of saying, 'I've got your back' in the midst of… whatever this is… ever."

Willy came back to life.

"Gosh darn right, by golly. Told ya."

"Yes, you did."

"And make a note, I don't play Telephone."

"I'll tell her."

Willy stamped a foot.

"No! You won't! Gee willikers, will you get the Snozzwhangers out of your ears! I said, 'I don't play Telephone'. Since when do you? It always turns into Soap Opera, and that bores me silly. I'll tell her."

Yeah, thought Terence, Telephone. That's what this was. Since when? Now that Willy mentioned it, it was one of the more odious aspects of this undertaking, and with Willy's blessing, he was glad to give it up. He felt a lightness come over him at Willy's insistence he do so, that cheered him immensely.

"So noted."

Satisfied, Willy seemed to fluff himself, the smile he pasted on his face as smug as he could make it. He couldn't let them let Terence play messenger-boy for them. If he did, Terence would bolt.

"Phew… Me and that aside, I bet ya didn't realize how hard this was gonna be on _you_."

At this new, odd observation, feeling better than he had for days, Terence laughed, from deep in his throat.

"I bet you're right. I wouldn't have guessed the amount of torture involved in this in a million years, and I've no idea why. This has nothing to do with me. If I'd known, I doubt I'd've encouraged you to do it."

"You're wrong about that… the nothing part. But you were right about recommending this, though I didn't really believe that until a little bit ago. Because for Charlie's sake, this_ is_ the only right way to do this. If I could think of any better way, I'd be doing that. But I couldn't, and to this minute, I can't. So here we are, stuck in this fire swamp, dangers erupting at every turn." His smile grew mischievous. "It's kinda exciting."

"The only thing that keeps me playing," allowed Terence.

Willy smiled, pleased with himself. "But as un-comfy as I thought you'd made me, I didn't know how on-edge this was making you, till my desk saved me, and wanting to share the pain, though I guess I didn't need to, I kinda got ya back today, I think, I hope. Did I?"

Terence's brows furrowed. He'd been following Willy till now, and feeling good about it. But here he was, lost again. Got him back?

"There are times, Willy, when I really wish… and I mean really, first try… that I knew what in tarnation you were talking about."

* * *

><p>Nora's truck screeched to a halt beside Noah's. She bounced out of the cab on the balls of her feet, the elation flowing through her looking for an outlet. She didn't find it looking over at Noah. He had his window rolled down, and was conferring with the Professor-In-Charge. How boring! She skipped around the trucks to see how the house was coming. What she saw was a sandcastle, melting with each new wave. Melting! There was an idea.<p>

Running out into the dump, Nora looked for a crevice in the closest pile of debris. The snow was gone from the work site, beaten away by the activity. Were it not frozen, the site would be a muddy morass. Yuck! She thought of the Chocolate Room and all that delicious, edible, incredible Swudge. How did Willy keep that clean? And then it hit her. Until her family arrived on the scene, that hadn't been a problem.

"No one ever goes in, and no one ever goes out," Nora sang to herself, as she fashioned a snowball.

Clutching her ammo, hiding it behind her other hand, Nora saw Noah alight from the truck as the Professor moved off. She let fly, the snowball exploding with a dry whoosh as it landed squarely between Noah's shoulder blades.

"Hey, no fair," Noah turned, seeing it was his wife, and smiling a toothy smile. "That was in the back."

"I know," Nora smiled in return, running up to him, her arms snaking around his waist. "Made you turn around!"

"So?" Noah's arms mirrored his wife's. She was so happy!

"So now I can kiss you," she bubbled, and Nora reached up and kissed him, a quick peck on the lips. Where she was, was catching up to her, and a little embarrassed, she looked around.

Noah didn't care where they were. Touched by her spontaneity, he tightened his hold as she made to flee, and bending, his lips met hers, in a soft kiss. It was lovely. Nora forgot again where she was, and gave herself over to the tingling sensation of warmth, in this sea of cold.

A student unloading the cargo of lights, catching sight, nudged the greasy-haired new-comer beside him.

"There's a bucket full. Look at the fossils… getting it on like they're not half-dead."

Not paying any attention to what he couldn't care less about, the greasy-haired new-comer straightened up when the student nudged him again.

"What's Wonka got in that factory that makes 'em feel so good?"

"Ugh," grunted Felix, not liking the look of the generator he was seeing, or this poking. They might want him to help move it, and it looked heavy. Felix tore his eyes away from the generator, with the accursed cursive Wonka 'W' logo plastered on its sides. The guy had said, 'bucket full', not 'eye full'.

"Ya got me. Those the Buckets?"

Felix had seen the two get out of the trucks. Raiding the 'fridge and vegging at his parent's house for most of the day had finally gotten old. Suspension or no, he'd decided to schlepp down here to see what he could see before he went back to his flat. Not seeing that asshole watchdog James, he'd come in for a closer look. The kiss he was seeing only looked sweet to him, but the dude was right about one thing… they did look half-dead. Other than that, they looked like nice people. Like down to earth people, like his mom and dad. Not like that back-stabbing Wonka. They'd learn.

"Yeah, that's them," said his informer, suspicion creeping into his voice. "Where've you been?"

Ducking his head, Felix hunched his shoulders.

"Working too hard to notice," he mumbled. "Did you want to move this?"

"Yeah, dude, we're gonna put it over there. Show's over, anyway."

* * *

><p>Across town, set too high for the usual urban animals to trigger, in a spectrum the human eye couldn't see, Dr. Wonka's steps upon the frozen earth of the lot as he moved into it, broke multiple beams of invisible light. Surreptitiously, cameras mounted in the architecture began to whirr. In Dr. Grant's study, a deep, musical chime filled the quiet of the house. From a pigeonhole in the desk, Ms. Chime's steady friend, Mr. Red Light, instantly joined the party, shining, patiently hopeful, into the empty room. They both promised a show, but their separate urgings that Dr. Grant fire up his monitors and enjoy it, went unheeded.<p>

* * *

><p>Noah lifted his head, smiling into his wife's eyes.<p>

"Why the sudden happiness, dear?"

"Willy Wonka is talking to me!"

Noah shook his head and dropped his arms.

"I think he's talking to all of us, dear. I'll grant you, mostly after you say something to him first, if you can find him, but there it is."

"No, no, I don't mean that. I mean he's _talking_ to me, about his past, about his mother! Libby says he _never_ talks about his mother. Libby doesn't even know if Willy knows her _name_," Nora lifted Noah's forearm and wrapped her hand around it as she led him away from the bustle of activity. "I mean, Willy didn't tell me anything about her _really_, just about when she left, and I didn't understand a word he said, well, I understood the words, but I didn't know what they meant, but I do _now_, I figured it out on the drive down the hill, and—"

"Whoa, whoa, I can't keep up." Noah patted her hand. This was good news if Willy was contemplating letting loose some of that tight rein he kept himself under, living with him would be a lot easier, but excitement like this to the high-strung was the same as throwing gasoline on a fire.

"When did he tell you all this?"

"Last night, when I got back." With a pout, Nora stuck her chin in the air. "You just wanted to sleep."

"Sure, I remember. I won't make that mis—"

Nora suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes all wide and staring, her voice hushed and reedy.

"Oh, no!"

"What?"

"I talked to Terence, about this morning!"

"This morning?"

"This morning," Nora said, glancing with worry at Noah. "Willy left suddenly. He was showing me around. Oh, no! I hope Terence doesn't say anything to him! Oh, no! Of course he will! I asked him to! Oh no! Willy will think I'm a blabbermouth! He'll think he can't trust me. Oh, no! Willy will think I don't trust him!"

They were far out in the field by now, rusting debris their only companions.

"Do you trust him, dear?"

"Of course I do. I think I do. Yes, I do." Nora took a step away, to see his face. "We're moving into his Factory, aren't we? That proves it." Her husband was quiet, but the wind blew back a lock of hair from his face. She saw the pinched quality around his eyes, and the rounding of his shoulders. "Aren't we, dear?"

"Are we, dear?" Noah looked up at the sky, the clouds all but gone, revealing the watery sun, low on the horizon. "Willy didn't meet Charlie today, and the Oompa-Loompas seemed upset to me. They know him better than we do. Willy changes his mind. He ran the largest Chocolate Factory in the world once, and he invited people in. Like now. Then one fine morning he decided to close it down. Didn't open the gates that day. Left everybody all dressed up, with nowhere to work. And you know what? I heard it was over something to do with trust."

Noah stopped, putting a caring arm around his wife's shoulders. His smile was as glum as his face.

"Willy changing his mind has disappointed this family before. He may do it again."

Biting her lower lip, Nora shivered, nestling closer to her husband, her thrill of discovery gone.

"If he does, I hope it's not because of anything I've done. I thought we were getting along."

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, perhaps reviewing, and just in general, for stopping by._

_Thank you **dionne dance**. It seems in Willy Wonka's family, the phrase, 'There's a lot riding on your smile' takes on a whole new meaning. And thank you **Linkwonka88**. I'm glad you think so._


	30. And…

"Darn."

Willy sighed, studying the toes of his boots, and the indents they made on the carpet.

"Really, first try, it should have worked, but I guess, in tarnation, it didn't, cuz if it had, you'd've known."

"You can always tell me what it was," Terence suggested.

"I could, but why spoil it? It'll work eventually, and that reminds me."

Willy left the window, and headed toward his desk.

Terence, still clueless as to what Willy was on about, started to rise, to give Willy his place, and get back down the hill, but Willy, impatient, motioned Terence to stay as he was.

"You're not a jack-in-the-box, or even a Terence-in-the-box, so don't jump up like one every time I move an inch. It makes me nervous. I put you there. I want you there. I'll be here."

Terence wondered that Willy wasn't shooing him back to the moving project, but settled once again.

"We're not done?"

Alighting like a butterfly about to sip nectar, Willy balanced on the arm of the chair facing the double doors, his walking-stick draping itself casually against his thigh. Terence's otherwise ignored question earned him a flashing sidelong glance, complete with narrowed eyes and tight-pressed lips, but the cloud disbursed as instantly as it formed, and Willy only pointed to the saucer of candies.

"You were eating those. Did you like them?" Willy's voice grew silky as he spoke. "They're new."

Terence nodded agreement and affirmation, his thoughts of getting back to the project magically replaced by how worried that silky delivery should make him feel about eating 'new' candies, but Willy, otherwise unconcerned, quirked a brow, wanting more. Terence obliged, deciding they weren't, after all, in the Inventing Room… so the confections couldn't be _that _new… or, he decided he needn't worry, untested.

"They're tangy, and refreshing, but it was the different sizes, and their irregular surfaces that caught my interest. When you see them close up, they look like moon rocks, or meteor fragments… you know… like something from outer-space."

Willy, calm for a minute while the description held his attention, tapped his index finger against his cheekbone when it ended.

"Hmmm, I hadn't thought of that. Now that ya mention it, they do kinda look like that. Hey!" Willy held up the finger he'd been tapping, brightening at the second person today to bring up the alternative to sticking out this sticky ol' fire swamp wicket.

"Ya wanna go to Space?"

It was hard to keep up with Willy's shifting moods, they were changing like lightning, but Terence, though wary, didn't have to think over that suggestion at all.

"Yes, I do. Have we time before dinner?"

Grinning at the first sentence, at the second sentence, Willy, rolling his walking-stick in his hand where it leaned against his thigh, next rolled his eyes, then rolled himself off the arm of the chair, and head down, walking-stick twirling behind his back, made a circuit of his office, like a panther pacing in a too small cage. Space was out. The earlier, ignored question, repeated like a litany in his head. 'We're not done?' They wouldn't be done until Terence coughed up why he was here, and if he did, it would only be the beginning, a terrifying idea, with the only idea more terrifying than that idea, the idea of _not _beginning. But Terence wasn't coughing, and time, as Terence so adroitly brought up, was running short.

"Have we time before dinner?… Time before dinner?… Time before dinner?" Willy chanted, eyes flashing, a speck of spit at the corner of his mouth. "What a boring consideration, old fish, when I'm suggesting adventure! Are you becoming a bore, Terence?"

Terence swiveled his chair as Willy circled, evaluating with alarm the degree of sneer he was hearing, wondering how much internal pressure it took to bring bile like that to the surface of someone so naturally cheerful. He'd never seen Willy this stressed by anything, but like fire fighting fire, the catbird seat he was perched in was all Terence needed to match the emotion.

"No, old fish, I'm sitting here wondering if I'm wasting my time. Because if I am, I'm all for eighty-sixing the whole shebang, and heading into Space with you, this very second. Blast off!"

Willy whirled, striding to the desk, gloved knuckles pressing into its leather top, amethyst eyes incredulous as he leaned across it, the collateral thwack of the walking-stick he still held filling the office as the wood trim took the unintended hit. All that had registered was the eighty-sixing.

"You'd walk away?" Willy whispered, aghast. He was glad for the desk. It was holding him up. "That's why you're here? You think you're wasting your time?" His voice was shaking, all trace of the sneer lost in anxiety. "What, in the whole, gosh, darn, tootin' wide world gave you _that _idea?"

Terence slid the chair he sat in back a bit, and folding his arms, his elbows resting on the chair's arms, he leant forward, matching Willy's intensity, but speaking ever so slowly.

"Not 'what?', dear chap. 'Who?' _That's_ the question, and the answer would be _you_, Mr. Wonka. Today… this morning, when you left the Chocolate Room. You've arranged it since then so that no one can find you. That includes your Oompa-Loompas, and you did it in a way that freaked them out—"

"Oh, poppycock, they know—"

"Quiet!" Terence held up a hand, "I'm not done… even though they did their best to pretend that wasn't so… and we all know you do like to disappear. But the kicker is, you didn't meet Charlie, and after the concern you showed this morning, that's a bet I'd have lost, and I'd have almost bet my life."

Willy straightened, and took a step back. Bet his life? On what _he'd_ do? Was Terence crackers? Thank God for 'almost'. And a knife between his ribs would hurt less than how he'd feel if he'd upset his dear Oompa-Loompas. As for the others, the entire point of leaving the scene this morning was _NOT_ to upset these people. How contrary could they be? If this assumption were the fallout, it was entirely the wrong result.

"I trust you to keep Charlie safe."

"And doesn't that just tickle me pink," Terence cooed, "but that's not the point. I want to know if I'm wasting my time taking Charlie's house apart. You took a powder deciding to invite them in, and if you're taking a powder now, I'm thinking it's because you're changing your mind about letting them stay."

Willy opened the distance with another step back.

"Their house is already apart."

"And easily put back together, my dear Chocolatier. Isn't that the plan? Or better yet, you could substitute it… with almost any other house in this town."

Another step back.

"Well… there's that."

"Yeah… there's that." Terence brought his chair back in tight to the desk, leaning forward, arms still folded, the desk untouched. "So here I am. You tell me. Am I wasting my time? Are _you_ wasting my time? Have you changed your mind?"

Silence.

Terence had finally asked what he'd come here to ask. Willy stood composed. He had considered this possibility earlier; had in fact, come darn near _to_ changing his mind, the events of the morning making him think this change to his Factory was a change he couldn't make. To borrow from _Emma_, that made Terence's questions, with his accusatory tone, too true to contradict… not outright, anyway, and anyway, it didn't matter: the afternoon he'd spent had made the change seem possible after all. So even dreading the changes he'd have to make to make the change work, he _hadn't_ changed his mind.

"Terence."

The pause was a long one, and Terence, sensing a relaxation, responded to the familiar pattern.

"Willy."

A sigh.

"Do you know why, as you earlier lamented, you sometimes don't follow me?"

Terence shook his head.

"Because you are more often ahead of me. But not this time…"

Willy's voice trailed off, and Terence didn't press. A respite was in order.

His psyche still shying from the choice he'd made—old scabs, hiding old wounds, about to be torn off—Willy made a three-quarter turn toward the window, as if it were a siren, keening a melody only he could hear; but he stopped at that, judging further retreat as yet another disappearance; small, but not the message he wanted to send. Being afraid of being afraid had finally gotten old—old enough to be gotten rid of—because the truth of it was, Afraid was getting in his way, and that didn't sit with him. He'd be afraid, and go through with this anyway.

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, perhaps reviewing, and just in general, for stopping by._

_Thank you, **dionne dance**. I hope you enjoyed the scene's continuation here, as much as the first bit. And there's more to come… though it won't be such a long wait. And thank you **Linkwonka88**, for your reaction to the previous chapter. **Ifwecansparkle**, thank you, thank you, to you as well, for your two reviews. They are always, whenever you can find the time, welcome._


	31. You…

Though he had turned away, Willy's fidgeting hands betrayed a sorting of his feelings, and Terence was content to wait.

In not long, the walking-stick flashed out to Willy's side once more, the light, catching its spiraling ridges in its warm embrace, making it sparkle. Pivoting on his toes around it, Willy strode to the saucer of candies on the table. With a grand, sweeping motion, he doffed his hat from his head, depositing it upside down on the table next to the little dish of candy. Studying the selection, he picked one out and held it up, turning it between his thumb and fingers the way he had earlier turned the rubber ball.

"These candies, my dear Terence, are not meteor fragments. They are pollens."

"Pollens?"

"The surface of pollens have some very strange convolutions. Each color is a different variety. They were your idea."

"My idea?"

"I already said that. You said the Chocolate Room would be eatable, but uninhabitable, if the flowers in it came with pollen. I thought I'd make some."

Terence remembered the comment. It was an aside; an ice-breaker really, made the first time he'd seen the Chocolate Room. Not seriously meant, but it was dawning on him that you could mention a dripping faucet to Willy, and he'd come up with some candy idea from it. Terence grinned, and just as quickly frowned.

"Okay, so you've said… and this is taking us… where?"

Taken with Terence's meteor observation, Willy bent and set the candy sphere on the table, ranging others from the saucer around it, like a little solar system. Straightening, he looked up, eyes sparkling.

"D'ya think if I crush one, like crushed ice, and use just a piece of it, we could say it was Pluto?"

Terence sighed, and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair.

"Willy…" Sometime today, maybe? "Are we wasting my time?"

Squared shoulders rounding, Willy sighed back, his tangent as pulverized as his plan for the candy. Leaving the candy, he put both hands atop the walking-stick he moved front and center, and took a gulp of air.

"We are not. We are having a not-what-it-seems-will-seem-what-it-is situation."

Willy broke the stance, and like a diagnostician delivering bad news, clasped his hands behind his back, his head down, the walking-stick settling at an easy angle, but quiet.

"You cannot see, from my desk, that poking out from tiny cracks, these candies have little spikes and pits all over them. From where you sit, they look smooth. I cannot see, from that window, that the little boy who inspired my contest, standing outside the gates of my Factory, day after day as he did, is not little only because he is small, but also because he is starving. I had to see him close up, in your shop, to discover that. What applies to me looking down this hill, applies to them looking up this hill. There are cracks in me they cannot see from their house on the edge of that dump, but that they will see in me…" Willy shook his head, remembering the morning, "_are_ seeing in me… if they live on this side, of those walls."

Taken aback, Terence folded his hands against the supple leather of the desk's surface. He didn't need to see Willy's hand gesture to know which walls he meant, and Willy was right about that: no one will see imperfections, or anything else for that matter, if they don't see you. Viewed from that angle, the disappearances made sense. Time-outs, they were, to get it together… or keep it together, though Terence judged them a high price to pay to seem flawless. Everyone has flaws. But what struck Terence more, was the way Willy had spoken. Like old times, they may as well have been sitting under that tree in the schoolyard, on a bright fall day, discussing the pitfalls of knowing everyone's future but your own, on account of living life backwards: your death your birth, and your birth your death. As carefree, or serious, or tinged with the macabre as those discussions might be, Willy's side had always been understandable, first time, really, you didn't even have to try. Now Willy was using that understandability to make clear the concepts of 'starving' and 'cracks'. The directness was in such contrast to the usual verbal convolutions. The feel of the cool leather was gratifying on Terence's skin. Yielding and full, and distinctly smooth, it provided a contrasting balance.

"Which is not to say I'm saying I'm cracked."

Terence looked up. Willy had rocked once on his heels, the small motion, as much as the words, attracting his attention.

"_My_ cracks, are more like the fine crazing you see in the varnish on old masterpieces, not, masterpiece that I am, in the work itself." Willy paused. "Which is also not to say that the cracks of my crazing make, or makes me, crazy." He paused again, lower lip pushing against upper. "You'd be crazed to think so."

Willy's edgy comments interrupted, and Terence smiled at the familiar pattern of the present, but it was just Willy being nervous, and not enough to make Terence leave his thoughts. His eyes unfocused, his head tilted toward the ceiling, Terence grunted a cursory 'uh-huh', and started on his own sort, his hand reaching unconsciously for the discarded paddle.

No wonder Charlie had been so calm, day after day, sitting on that bench. It was only a pattern already long-established for both, extended. And weren't they the peas in the pod, neither of them bothering to mention that to him? Terence could forgive them that. Charlie wouldn't have thought it important—he was just doing what you do outside the Chocolate Factory—and Willy knew Terence's job was to discover things. How could he do that, if Willy told him? A smile played across his face. In an odd way, Willy probably thought he was being thoughtful. But Willy'd better think again, and perhaps he had: Terence couldn't discover _everything_ by himself.

The room was silent, Terence not noticing that his friend, expecting more of a remark, and not getting more, had keen eyes fixed on him as if he were a microbe. Terence hadn't understood then why Willy had allowed— no, wrong word… INSISTED, that Terence let Charlie into the shop that night. He did now. Willy had already been aware of Charlie; had already thought Charlie had a soft spot for the Chocolate Factory. Willy just didn't know if what he thought about Charlie was true, or only wishful thinking; or even, small detail that it was, Charlie's name.

"Huh."

The utterance was involuntary on Terence's part, but Willy perked up.

Tapping the edge of the paddle gently against the desk, Terence let his eyes refocus, avoiding looking directly at Willy. Instead, he looked at the solar system on the table, and held the paddle still.

"Before you had the contest… does Charlie know you know he was at the gates every day?"

"Nah-uh."

"Does he know he was the inspiration for the contest?"

"Nope."

"Huh."

Terence lifted his gaze.

"Are you gonna tell him?"

Dropping his gaze, it was Willy's turn to study the solar system.

"Can't imagine why I would… it'd be nothing but pressure. Don't see that either of us are in short supply of that at the moment."

"Huh."

The insights were piling up. Terence resumed his tapping, the noise of the paddle against the leather filling the silence while he pondered.

"Must you?"

"Huh?"

"Tap that? And can you expand your vocabulary some? 'Huh' is getting old."

Terence chuckled.

"Uh-huh."

Willy smiled at the choice of reply, but Terence, off in la-la-land somewhere, was paying him only half a mind. For what was coming, Willy wanted all of it. Stepping around the table, Willy moved to the sofa, staring at it fondly.

This oughta do it.

"I have a shrink, you know," Willy confided.

"Didn't know," replied a fully alert Terence. "That your idea?"

"Hardly."

"Huh."

Terence caught the monosyllable too late, but hurried on.

"And how's that working out for you?"

Not as well as that revelation worked out, Willy thought, dismissing the 'huh' with a flip of his wrist, pleased at the level of attention. Willy sat gingerly down on the edge of the sofa, patting it as if it were the fur of a freshly groomed Yorkshire terrier.

"Not here," Willy went on, his eyes limpid. "There's no shrinking done here… not on this sofa."

Willy gave it another pat, but sitting proved impossible, and up he popped to circle the table, only to sit down in the other arm-chair… the one facing away from the office doors, and toward the un-embellished door in the other wall.

"I have a chaise lounge for those occasions. It's made of black leather, with fancy tucking, but it's not like that cadillac I have in the Inventing Room… the one you slept on. The shrinking sofa's on the short side, and narrow, because I don't want to get too comfortable on it. I might stay on it." Willy's eyes widened a little. "Wouldn't that be ghastly! I mostly set it up in the main hallway, because my shrink uses a red chair. Not the same red as the carpet… a different red… and they clash, but good. I like it that way. Every time I look up, I see it. The clashing is jarring. Being shrunk is a jarring business, so I think it suits."

With a nod, Terence smiled.

"Just ask Mike Teavee."

A hand lifted to Willy's mouth, and Terence heard a titter.

"You're bad, Terence. My shrink is an Oompa-Loompa… who'd a guessed?… But then again, as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted," Willy smirked at Terence, "the Oompa-Loompas, living on this side of the walls as they do, have already noticed some of my, ah, inconsistencies, and this was their idea. I picked the Oompa-Loompa I picked because he's picky about his company… stays away from everyone, he does… and because he's as deaf as a post. He doesn't hear I word I say, so I feel free to say whatever I like. Sometimes I get lucky, and I figure something out, but mostly, I do it because it keeps the worry-warts off my back, and out of my face."

"Don't the worry-warts know he's deaf?"

"I dunno… maybe… Why are you asking me? Ask them."

A little cross, Willy continued. "He reads lips perfectly. When I want him to know what I'm saying, I look at him directly. Maybe he's got 'em all fooled. You don't need ears to read sign language, and I think he's got 'em convinced he won't converse in anything else," Willy's fingers made air-quotes, "'to preserve the old ways'."

Terence gave a little thought to the tidbits he'd just heard, and what they might mean.

"I'm not as deaf as a post. I'll hear every word you say."

"That's the idea," sighed Willy. "I'm in over my head, and all of this is all your fault."

"My fault?"

"You foisted a familia on me. I should have known better. I told ya I tried t' get cha back for that."

Terence failed to respond. If there were a clock in the room, they'd have heard it ticking, like a bomb, counting down to zero. But there wasn't. Except for their quiet breathing, the silence stretched out like a desert: endless, unmarked, and devoid of oasis. Finally tiring of the anticipation, Willy looked over at Terence.

"Aren't cha gonna say something?"

His elbows making indents in the leather on Willy's desk, chin in his hand, Terence shrugged.

"Not when you say something as stupid as that."

Willy laughed, and relaxing, toed off his boots, tucking his feet up under him. Terence was a link to the past, and the only welcome link to the part of his past that was bothering him now. And Terence didn't seem daunted by the prospect of further revelations, or too fazed by what he'd heard so far, but best of all, as blunt as Terence was, he was also blasé, and if Terence could be blasé about this looming nightmare, Willy could be too.

"Now there's a thought… Maybe my shrink isn't deaf." In his relief, Willy mirrored Terence, his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin in his hand. "Maybe my shrink thinks everything I say is stupid. Wouldn't that be a laugh? On me? I'll bet that guy cleans up in the Willy or Won't He Room. I babble endlessly about all sorts of plans on that couch." Willy sat back, pleased. "This might work… If I say something savvy."

Terence knit his brows.

"The Will He or… you know, I'm not even gonna ask."

Willy giggled.

"Not 'will he'. Me. It's the conference room, and it'd be nothing but a cobweb collection 'cept for the Oompa-Loompas using it, cuz I almost never conference. I dare say it's become the Factory's casino. Certain of the Oompa-Loompas are as bad as you are when it comes to making bets."

"My bets are hypothetical."

"Theirs aren't. They've got a regular bookie cacao bean exchange going on down there."

"So? How'd we get on this subject? Anyone ever tell you you're a master at deflection?"

With an indolent smile, his eyes three-quarters closed, Willy curled the fingers of one hand and blew on them, then rubbed them against the velvet on his chest, as if he were polishing a medal.

"No. So?"

"So? So say something savvy and see if this works."

Bracing himself against the chair with his medal polishing hand, Willy lifted his head and stared at the ceiling, all amusement leaving him, his body tensing. "So, so say you, I say something? So how 'bout this… _She can't be both_." The words bit. Cold eyes turned to Terence. "That savvy enough for ya?"

"Both?"

"I already said that!" Irritated, the fingers of Willy's hand flicked the arm of the chair. "Savvy? I left this morning because Nora can't be Thea. And she was. She was being Thea."

Too tense now for the blasé approach to stay àpropos, or even possible, Willy popped up, pacing the length of the table.

"It was the Swudge that did it. She was into the Swudge… All over it."

Willy turned narrowed eyes to Terence, but the energy flowing from them was like the on-coming high-beams of a truck close-in on a moonless night. Terence knew better than to look away, but he wanted to. Willy was downright angry.

"So I have no intention of marketing Swudge. She had idea after idea. Swudge Juleps… you know, it has a minty taste…"

Terence saw Willy close his eyes for a beat at the word 'minty' but Willy was soon back in form, the pacing unabated, eyes still locked on Terence.

"Make the Swudge look like hay… make Hay Juleps, for days at the race track… Toast the horses in the paddock with them… some folderol about making them jealous. Make medicated Swudge, that tastes like sugared hay, for horsey medicine feeding!"

Willy stopped the prowl for a moment.

"She said I'd make a fortune doing that. Do I look like I need a fortune? I think I've already checked that box."

The sharp eyes on Terence made him feel like a mouse in the sights of an owl, but Willy wasn't looking for an answer, and the pacing resumed. The stream of words cascaded like the chocolate fall, with Terence thankful for the respite from the stare when Willy made his turns.

"Make long strands of Swudge to use to make nests in the bottoms of Easter baskets she said! Wasabi flavored Swudge… in little fence shapes for sushi serving—"

Willy's hand motions weren't keeping up with his words, and they were becoming more and more extravagant. Terence leaned forward, the desk in his way, his voice firm.

"So the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Charlie will be a star. What's your beef? That medicine idea would work for cattle, too."

That stopped the pacing, and the rushing tirade, but Willy turned a quarter-turn away from Terence, still talking, but now to the carpet, his words clipped, his voice icy.

"It. Was. So. So…"

"So what?"

Pivoting, Willy turned the high-beams back on, beaming them back at Terence.

"_Ambitious_."

"So?"

"So? So, with Charlie's she's always been like… been like… like…"

Willy threw his head back, his shoulders set like stones, his eyes closed as he did his best to continue, but in another minute he gave it up, his chin falling to his chest, the hand not holding his walking stick pushed against the velvety high collar of his frock coat. His cheek was against that, and a tear threatened to leak from the corner of his lowered eye. The anguish was smothering. Terence couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to, and he didn't want to. Anything tactile would just make this worse.

"You can say who, Willy," Terence said softly. "I know you had one. I've been, with you, in the house where she lived, with you. And you've met mine."

Yes, dear Terence, to see it, that was the link. Willy said nothing. Instead he stood quietly, his eyes closed, the lashes moist, his head on a slight tilt, the hand holding his walking-stick letting it fall. The carpet sighed a welcome, as the stick found a nest in its nap, the Nerds, moving against each other, making a slight rustle of protest. Willy's other hand danced at his hip, thumb repeatedly sliding against fingers, as if it were deciding and un-deciding, all on its own, a course of action.

The decision made, the sliding ended. A shoulder dropped, and arms went into action. Terence watched the same maroon frock coat Willy had worn to the shop, that first day he'd resurfaced in Terence's life, drop to the carpet beside the stick.

Without the swath of color made by his coat, the only points of color on him were his brooch, his collar, and the sleeves of his paisley shirt. Except for the pale gloves, from head to toe, everything else Willy wore was black. As black as what we don't know about his past, Terence thought. A difficult past Willy keeps as thoroughly disguised by his personality, as the colors of his frock coats disguise all the black he wears underneath them.

Following his stick and coat, Willy sank to the carpet, legs crossed, black-stockinged toes poking out incongruously, with one elbow on his knee, his chin resting in his hand. The effect on Terence was a touch disconcerting. Without his trademarks, Willy looked surprisingly like everyone else, and surprisingly the way Terence remembered him, sitting on the hard-packed earth of that schoolyard, under the spreading branches of that tree.

Having transformed himself sufficiently for time travel, Willy faced Terence matter-of-factly, using his other hand to absently carve and re-carve a curving design in the carpet's pile.

"You think so, do you? That I can say it? That I had," an intake of breath, "a mother? You've seen my belly button, have you?" The breath exhaled. "You haven't. It's an innie, by the way. But I did. I had a mother who lo…" He stopped. "Like Charlie's mother."

The next pause was longer, and when he spoke, Willy's face was hidden behind his steepled fingers, as he rocked gently where he sat.

"Her name was Araminta."

Willy turned his head to the side, as if he wished what he were saying next were still true.

"I haven't said her name out loud to anyone for years."

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, perhaps reviewing, and just in general, for stopping by._

_Thank you, **dionne dance**, and, yeah, it was a cliffie… Ain't I a stinker? But, hey, the wait wasn't a long one for a change._

_And thank you **Linkwonka88.** __Willy fears new pain on top of old pain, in the form of family dynamics. Kinda like having someone break your femur, managing to set it yourself, getting it in a cast, getting the pain under control, and then seeing the person who broke it approaching with a gleam in their eye, and a sledgehammer in their hand, bent on hitting you in the same place again.__ Bad enough the first time, when the bone was strong. How much worse now, with the bone unhealed? Definitely something to dread. Good luck, by the way, with your Hot Air Balloon commercial rating._

_And absolutely not least, thank you,** Ifwecansparkle**. I, too, am inspired by Willy's resolve to continue. I suspect the willingness of these characters to pursue their dreams, in the face of all logic and common sense screaming at them it'll never happen, is why I like this book/movie so much._


	32. To Find Out

Terence was grateful he was sitting down, and silently thanked Willy for the solid nature of the provided desk. Talking about your past was no big deal, people did it all the time, but this was Willy Wonka, and he never did.

"Araminta," Terence said, absorbing the disclosure, while swallowing the shock. "An unusual name."

Willy's look was wry.

"The apple. I was off to a good start—"

"The apple?"

The question met with a testy shake of Willy's head, followed closely by a billowing of his hands and arms.

"As in the tree, dear chap… the tree."

Terence was doing his best pretending-not-to-be-gobsmacked routine, and his brain, Willy surmised, wasn't in as high a gear as it usually was. Feeling an odd, bouncy sensation blossoming that he thought he should resist, Willy sat on a sigh, and then a giggle. His own struggle over, the sight of Terence's struggle was somehow riotously funny. But aside from Willy's attempted clarifying gesture—which he could see wasn't clarifying at all—Willy kept his enjoyment to himself.

"As in, unusual, apple, falling, not-far-from… you get it. Catch up," said Willy, mildly. "Or perhaps I flatter myself. No one ever called her that. The Dentist—"

Suddenly profoundly uncomfortable, Willy interrupted himself, shifting his weight, before sighing deeply. The bouncy feeling was gone.

* * *

><p>Damp leaves poking through the snow mired Dr. Wonka's feet, staining his shoes. If he remembered right, he was standing where his tray of implements had stood. Behind him, the limo's idle roughened from the waiting. Uncaring, Dr. Wonka pushed the sound from his consciousness.<p>

Araminta… Her name was Araminta. Araminta Walters… He'd learned it after the cleaning: after he'd scraped the infection away from those lovely teeth; away from the jawbones she'd need to hold them; after he'd cleansed the pocket with an antibacterial solution. After they'd moved to his desk.

Dr. Wonka frowned. His feet were feeling clammy with the wet that was beginning to soak through the soles of his shoes. They weren't at all suitable for this unplanned, mucking about. Striving to stave off the cold he knew he'd feel next, Dr. Wonka moved to a spot with fewer leaves. The memory alone was making him cold. Cold because she'd once brought him warmth. He'd taken her particulars as sweetly as he'd known how. It wouldn't do to lose track of the life-support unit for those teeth. She'd told him what he'd asked readily enough, but what he'd learned hadn't made him happy. Her name was a silly one. A silly name someone made-up. Worse, it was an unfashionable name. No one Dr. Wonka knew, or had ever known, had that name. He'd made a show of adjusting the form his was filling out, deciding to himself to never speak that oddball name.

'Miss Walters—'

'Oh, that is too formal! You have helped me. Please call me Minty.'

Dr. Wonka had cringed as she spoke that childish nickname, and at its memory, he cringed again. But now, his gut punctuated the reaction, with its own dollop of distress. With a hand to his side, he acknowledged the stab, and the timing of it, nodding his silent agreement. It was as if he and his pain were old friends, seeing eye-to-eye on something unsuitable. 'Minty' would never do, either. That hadn't been the end of it, he remembered. She'd blathered on.

'My friends do… or else Minta. My grandmama calls me that.'

Who cared? He wasn't going to use that one, either. But the g-word poked at Dr. Wonka's brain. He held the nib of the pen from the page, his attention caught.

'Your grandmother, did you say? Not your mother? Er… Or your father? I don't mean to pry.'

Her eyes had misted.

'They were lost when I was very young. On holiday, in Greece… a flash flood. My grandmama raised me.'

He had bent his head back to the paper, to bury his dancing eyes from her sight.

'I'm so sorry,' he'd trilled, his voice deep with sympathy.

But he wasn't sorry. Not the least bit. Dr. Wonka found it thrilling. '_I_ was raised', she'd said, making no mention of a brother or sister. It was probable she _hadn't_ any siblings, and at age twenty-eight, she was still a 'miss'. All of it pointed to the teeth-of-perfection being practically alone in this world. Only the interference of the pen they held saved him from rubbing his hands together, with delight. He'd cleared his throat with a subject changing harumpf he was certain she'd been glad of, and told her she'd need follow-up treatments. He was only to happy, right this minute, to schedule them! She was ever so grateful.

That was then. This was now. Dr. Wonka turned to face the street again, watching the specter of her memory as she left that day. Her name had sounded so English, but that hint of an accent he heard, when she spoke, set him wondering about the pedigrees of those dead parents of hers.

* * *

><p>"I must desist with that designation. Libby is a dentist. My disdain with that name doth denigrate the whole of the profession," Willy chirped, his index finger in the air.<p>

"Are you kidding? Doth?" Terence was getting his bearings back. 'Doth' was helping. "Libby's always been a dentist, and your disdain when using that name has always denigrated the profession."

Willy stretched out his arm, snagging his frock coat, and pulling it to him.

"So it has, and I'm not kidding. 'Disdain with that name' rhymes, and 'doth' helps the meter and alliteration. As for what I said, I'd rather stop. Did you know, that Libby doth deign to desire that I call him Libby?"

Terence had no trouble getting his mind around that one. He did know.

"And _you_ know that because…?"

"He told me so."

As eager as his eyebrows were to climb, Terence kept his face impassive. He glanced over at Dr. Grant's walking-stick twin.

"Is that where you were?"

Willy had the frock coat in his hand now, reaching into a pocket. Nodding, he removed a silver bi-fold shape, cupping its spine in his palm, holding it up as 'Exhibit A'.

"It was. I needed to go there to re-assure myself I had a learning curve."

* * *

><p>Dr. Wonka turned and walked to where the living room had been. The accent or the teeth… which proved the more decisive in the outcome, he wondered. Miss Walters had been punctual about her follow-up visits. It was a point in her favor. He'd taken X-rays of her teeth… copious X-rays. He'd taken regular photographs as well. But that accent! Over tea—he always arranged her as his last appointment of the day, and on two occasions, both coinciding with heavy rain, she'd taken him up on his invitation—in this very spot, he'd discovered she'd originally come to this country as an exchange student. Later, having landed for herself a full scholarship, she'd transferred. Not surprisingly, Dr. Wonka considered the subject she said she'd come to study not worth the voyage over.<p>

* * *

><p>"And had you a learning curve, Mr. Chocolatier?"<p>

Willy ducked his head, but smiled at the appellation.

"I did. Thank you for asking. A learning curve is why I'm talking to you now. That, and all the chocolate I've had to drink. I've been sipping it all afternoon. I blame myself for that. I made it, and I surely made sure I made it vvverrry thick. To get me through the thick of things." Willy rocked once where he sat. "I'd say. As of today, I'm working on improving it." Willy thought that over. "The learning curve, I mean, not the chocolate." A pause, and then, "Though I s'pose I mean that, too."

Still in his hand, Willy's frock coat was soon back in its usual place, on his person, its skirt fanned out on the carpet.

Willy was back in his coat, and the small silver bi-fold he'd been holding was back in his pocket. That didn't last long, Terence thought. Willy may have had to step outside himself to start the dialogue, but having started it, he was himself once more.

"Up," Willy said, plucking up his walking-stick, and rising to his feet.

Thinking the remark only commentary—Willy had said it most quietly—it took Terence a minute to realize Willy was saying it to him. But Willy rounding his desk with his hands making an 'up' motion made it clear, and made clear, the motion ended with the removal of his frock coat once more.

Relieved to shed the desk in favor of movement, Terence got up and took the great-circle route, swapping locations with Willy via the desk's other side.

Barely noticing, Terence forgotten, Willy laid the velvet across the desk's surface, removing a sheaf of stiff papers from a wide pocket in the lining of the back. Once they were out, the coat was back on.

"The other reason for the excursion. I'd normally put these in my hat, but I didn't want them to curl."

Nodding, Terence parked himself in one of the armchairs. He could see the papers were stiff, because some of them were photographs, and after last night, he could guess which photos those were.

"'Bracing' for you, picking those up, was it?"

Eyes asparkle, Willy shot Terence a wicked grin. First-hand knowledge got you far.

"Pun intended, I surmise?"

"Of course. Aren't I hard-wired for 'em?"

"Har-dee-hard-har. You're funny. Don't get too comfortable," Willy said, turning the uncomfortable reminders of circumstances past face down on his desk. "We're not staying."

Contradicting himself, Willy settled into his chair, and from another pocket pulled out a skeleton key. He unlocked a lower drawer, moving the sheaf of papers to a hanging folder therein.

Terence eyed the key, knowing there was more to it than could be seen. Locks unlocked with skeleton keys were locks easy to pick, and he'd gotten nowhere with any of the locks on Willy's desk.

"I'm surprised you're not burning those," Terence said.

"You never know when they might come in handy. Thea thought they might someday, and if she thought so, I should. Besides, we're nowhere _near_ the incinerator."

Willy locked the drawer once more, and stood up.

"Are we ready? I'm not. Throw me my hat, please. Who won the pool?"

Feigning ignorance, Terence leant forward, tossing Willy his hat.

"Pool?"

His hat back on his head, Willy was making 'up' motions again. Terence was sitting like a bump on a log.

"Whether or not I knew my mother's name."

Terence was loath to go there, his lips a straight line. Willy only laughed.

"I've lived alone for quite a while, if you call living with three thousand plus Oompa-Loompas alone… but I've lived with whispered speculation for far longer than that. It was one of the joys I gave up in my seclusion, and one of the joys I knew I could count on returning, were I to invite others into my Factory, which once again, I blame on you. So 'fess up. You owe me. Who won the pool?"

Terence acquiesced, in a way.

"Not Libby… He thought you didn't know. He thought if you did, you'd tell Thea. She'd have told him. The others refuse to speculate, and by 'others', I mean Nora. She thinks it's a shame you don't talk about it."

"Nora, Thea…"

Willy's eyes were lost in the distance, saying the names as if he were watching scales balancing. Then Terence heard "Thea…" but it wasn't for him. Willy's voice was soft, trailing off to nothing. When, more than a few minutes later, Willy spoke again, his voice was a far-away whisper.

"I didn't tell Thea. Mama was so different, and she was long gone. Why bring up the competition?"

Terence waited for more, but nothing more was forthcoming.

"Was it a competition?"

"No," Willy allowed. "It wasn't. It was apples and oranges." Quiet again. "But I did use the word, didn't I…" As if it were a divining rod that would lead him to his office door, Willy hefted his walking-stick. "Onward, Inquisitor. Let's get git."

* * *

><p>It was time he was going. Dr. Wonka shivered in his coat, delicate fingers of cold, finally finding their way, through the close weave of the fabric. The cold and his memories were competing, with the cold about to get the upper hand. But he couldn't tear himself away. On this very spot, Mina had dared to turn him down.<p>

'I can offer you a position as my assistant,' he'd told her. Though she'd be a nuisance, the X-rays he'd taken had only made the lack of the original more keenly felt.

'Oh, no,' she'd laughed, in her musical lilt, as if he'd suggested she'd like to colonize the moon. 'I have no training.'

'I'd train you, naturally.'

His lips were as pursed now as they were then. Shaking her head, she'd looked away. He should have left it at that, but the barb to his heart insisted on working its way back out.

'You prefer Art? Wasn't that it?'

She frowned at the derision he forgot to keep out of his voice. He frowned in distress, at his carelessness.

'I apologize, my dear. I don't mean to disparage your liking for Art. It just seems to me, that Art is not paying you very well.' And as the habitat for teeth as fine as those, 'You deserve the finer things life was to offer.'

Dr. Wonka picked up his teacup, hiding his face, thanking his stars he hadn't said the habitat phrase out loud. Her teeth made him giddy, and that made him reckless.

'Ah…' She'd laughed again, and taken a sip of her tea. 'It is not the Art who treats me so badly. It is the administrator of my full scholarship who is to blame. He left with all the funds, and left me stranded, with no money, and no way to go home, and no study of Art, but I have found myself, and I am happy. I am in a flower shop, and I make all the designs for the arrangements, and they are very much sought after. It is pleasing, but as you say, it does not pay very much.'

That faint accent and way of speaking had Dr. Wonka listening where normally he would have tuned out. He tilted his head, trying to place the cadence.

'Do I remember you said you are from Greece?'

She'd lowered her head, and drawn her hands tightly into her lap. Ah yes, the desired effect. He'd known well it wasn't Greece she hailed from, but this gave him another chance to show his sympathy, and caring. It was a risk. He might go too far, and truly offend her, but he'd be certain to tread lightly, and sound genuine.

'Oh my dear, once again, I fear I must apologize! That was where the accident occurred, wasn't it? I shudder to think I've made you think of that terrible time.' He'd extended his arm, in a friendly pat. 'Please forgive me.'

She'd withdrawn the wrist he patted, but she'd told him she hailed from the north of France, from Normandy, and she had grown up on a farm. It was why, once her dream of Art had died its unfunded death, she'd chosen to make the flowers and plants she'd loved—and never forgotten—her life.

* * *

><p>Terence caught up to Willy in the hall.<p>

"Where are we going?"

"To get Charlie, of course! You said what I did made you think I'd changed my mind, and if _you_ thought that, I can't think _Charlie_ didn't think that. I can't have that now, can I?"

Terence only shrugged, falling into step.

"I'm sure Charlie doesn't think anything like that."

Willy walked faster.

"Then I'm not sure you should think yourself sure of things. _I'm_ not sure. And I'm not taking the chance. Because I'll tell you, dear Terence," Willy flipped his left hand up by the side of his head, "this Factory," he made a rolling gesture with his fingers, "is far too big a place to feel fine in, if in it, you feel you've been forgotten."

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading, and if it so strikes you, please let me know your thoughts. A tremendous thank you also to those of you who have recently made this story a favorite. The encouragement helps oodles. I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended._

_Thank you and thank you to **dionne dance **and __**Linkwonka88 **for your reviews._


	33. Coincidence

_Warnings: Mentions of child abuse, mild gore, human trafficking, death, and the unbecoming pinching of an idea by a movie you may recognize._

* * *

><p>"Willy."<p>

"Terence."

"If no one ever called her that, how do you know your mother's name is Araminta?"

Having reached the doors of the Buckets' suite, Willy stood eyeing them as if they were a problem in applied physics. Interrupted, he took a step back into the hall, and taking another two steps back, he turned to face Terence, flipping his walking-stick up to press against his ribs, held tight there by his crooked arm.

"So you noticed that."

"I did. If no one ever called her that, how do you know?"

Tightening a corner of his mouth, Willy threw a quick glance at the doors. Flipping his walking-stick back down to his side, he focused half-closed, amethyst eyes on a close study of Terence.

"Do you have any idea, my dear chap, how many wonderful places in this Factory there are? All of which are preferable to this place, and these people, and these questions, and in any one of which, were I not here, I could refreshingly be, right now?"

Considering, Terence shifted his gaze to a point behind Willy. Lifting his voice, he likewise lifted his arm in a cheery wave, his smile broad.

"Oh, hey! Charlie! Where'd you come from?"

Willy went ramrod straight. 'These people'… any of those words, were nothing he wanted Charlie to hear. Rigid, he pivoted slowly on his toes, his brain racing, figuring a way to salvage _this _disaster. The hall was empty. There was no disaster to salvage. Breathing again, Willy turned back.

"That wasn't very nice."

"I agree," said Terence. "Tit for tat. If you haven't changed your mind, I wouldn't refer to them as 'these people', and go on about preferring to be anywhere but with them. Find some other way to say you'd rather not answer the question. You might try, 'I'd rather not say'. I asked just now, because you looked as if you might like a diversion. I would've asked you in your office, but you were on a roll. I didn't want to mess that up. But I am curious, and loose ends drive me crazy. So you can choose not to tell me, and drive me crazy. How's that strike you?"

The hall grew quiet, but a minute after that, Willy smiled. "Between the one and three pins? The one and two, if you're a lefty? I did set it up. I'll answer. I know, because of _your_ bad influence."

Terence laughed at the absurdity.

"Then you don't know. I'm not a bad influence."

It was Willy's turn to laugh, and the laughter was soothing.

"That's what _you_ say, but according to…" 'The Dentist' was out, "Dr.—"

"Wonka," Terence supplied.

"Yeah, that guy," agreed Willy mildly, only to suddenly become cross. "I didn't need that. There's nothing wrong with 'doctor', and 'Wonka' is certainly no problem, I can use both of those…" Relishing what he was about to say next, because he disagreed with it so completely, Willy relaxed. "According to him, you're _the worst_."

After the riff of giggles, Willy shifted his stance, and Terence could see he was off somewhere. A murmur confirmed it.

"Dede… I can call him Dede… like in DDS. Yeah… Dede. He'd hate that, because it's a girl's name, and he's not a girl. One meaning it has is sorrowful, and another is broken-hearted, like he makes people fe—" Willy began the word, but glassy-eyed, he swallowed it, "so—"

"Like I said, you don't have to answer."

"So." Willy was back. "So like I said, I will. After you skipped town, I snooped around, and found her passport. It was a French passport. Her name was in that."

"Ah," nodded Terence, preoccupied by the word 'after'. "It would be."

"It was." Willy rocked back on one foot, wondering if Terence were gonna make an issue of the timing. It would be okay, he'd brought it up himself… twice. Willy knew Terence noticed these things. He'd just proved it. And Willy had an answer. Before Terence came to town, Willy had heard the name Mina mentioned, by a few of Dede's guests, and Mrs. Wonka, the name Dede always used, couldn't be refuted. So he'd known his mother's name all along. Just like other people. But it looked like Terence was gonna leave those thorns alone, and with a quiet sigh of appreciation, Willy used the extra emotional energy to continue. Finding the passport had been a thrill.

"Ya know what else? Passports have pictures." Willy turned his head, breaking eye contact. "I didn't get to keep it. My…"

Simmering, Terence was right on it.

"Crap-for-brains father." Damn that asshole for labeling him a bad influence, and double-damn the degenerate for making his son snoop to discover what should have been told to him as a matter of course.

"…Ya, that guy…" Willy took a gulp of air. He felt good and bad hearing that… Whether right or wrong, long before his brain cells were his to rule, he'd had it beaten out of him to even _think_ stuff like that, much less say it. Trust good ol' bad influence Terence to stretch the envelope. And not break it. And 'crap' was technically not swearing. "He caught me with it, and took it away. I never saw it again." Chilled by the memory of the descending paternal claw, its talons tangling with the wires of his braces, before digging into the flesh of his shoulder, while the other claw plucked the passport from his fingers, Willy cleared his throat. "Charlie is waiting."

He's not though, thought Terence, noting the shudder the throat clearing did little to hide. Charlie doesn't know we're coming. But by all means, change the subject… probably a good idea. It'd make me first Dede meaning to lose a picture of my mother, if I didn't have many—or any—and having the only one I'd found snatched away, would make me second Dede meaning.

"After you, my good man," Terence said, his tone lightening the mood. His hand circled in a mock gesture that made Willy smile. Making it even easier, Terence stepped further back.

Still smiling, Willy strode up to the door.

* * *

><p>"Charlie!"<p>

At the unmistakable voice, Charlie looked up from his homework, his face aglow.

"Mr. Wonka!"

Willy breezed into the room, Terence trailing, closing the door Willy had flung open after making only a cursory rap he hadn't waited to have answered.

"Oh dear! I am in trouble!"

"You surely are, sir. You're supposed to wait until someone says, 'come in'," affirmed a frowning Grandma Josephine.

Willy shot her a look of incomprehension, and started again.

"Charlie!"

"Willy!" Charlie chimed back, closing his book.

"Oh good, I'm forgiven."

"Prince Valiant!"

It was Grandma Georgina, her face split by a smile that stretched ear-to-ear, with her arms held up and out, in a welcoming stretch as wide as her smile. But the pose was a vulture like 'V', her downward pointing fingers reminiscent of claws, and she looked for all the world to Willy like a turkey buzzard, perching on a bed. It had him thinking roadkill: a mashed up meal in a blood-smeared, maroon velvet frock coat, and that would be him. Eyes wide open, the image he'd conjured in his head froze him in mid-stride.

"Erp…"

Sensing anxiety, Georgina dropped her arms onto her lap, her smile still beaming.

"Prince Valiant," she began again. "What's become of my King George?"

The buzzard gone, Willy unlocked his stare and looked around the room at the faces. One was reproving, four were smiling—one of those was Ahlia's; he believed that one—Terence was behind him, coming up beside him, and three were missing.

"King George?"

"Grandpa George," said Terence, sotto voce.

As if it would fix everything, Willy grinned a rictus grin at all of them, his words audible only to Terence.

"He's not back yet?"

"Still at my shop."

"Umm."

Seeing no problem whatsoever with that location, with a shake of his hair, and a jut of his chin, Willy was back in motion. He reconnoitered his way to the dining table, taking the chair next to Charlie.

"What cha doin'?"

"Homework."

"You closed your book. Does that mean you're done?"

Willy could feel Georgina's rheumy eyes upon him, but what with Josephine's sourpuss vibes their own tsunami, the better part of valor was for this Valiant to keep his distance. On the other hand, Willy was loathe to disappoint Georgina's genuine kindheartedness.

"Cuz if ya are, there's a damsel-in-distress over yonder, who'd like a knight-in-shining-armor, that's you, Charlie, to rescue her…"

Here, brow furrowed, Willy faltered. He was the king of this castle. Stating otherwise set a bad precedence. But Georgina _had _said, 'my', and Charlie _was_ looking at him expectantly… throwing caution under the fudge cutting knives, Willy sliced ahead.

"…King, and if you choose to accept this noble quest, I've got just the trusty steed to tackle it."

Fondly remembered, this talk of quests took Terence back to a certain, halcyon Fall; a Fall he'd recently been accused of skipping out on. That wasn't the way he'd have characterized the event… not even close. As for Charlie, the stories of the Knights of the Round Table only took second place to the stories of the Chocolate Factory, because the Chocolate Factory was real, and stood in this very town.

"I am! And I do!" Charlie hastened to respond, eyes bright. "But you must come with me, as my squire, regal sir."

Regal… That was a good word, and coming with was the plan. Willy rose to his feet, but overcoming his anticipatory anxiety as soon as he got there, he sat back down. If he were going out again, there was more to do. And Charlie's face was beaming, but he was speaking in that whispery voice that meant that hearing his wishes, Charlie didn't trust the universe not to disappoint him. That cut. _That_ voice, had all but disappeared.

"Mais, bien sûr, Sir Knight… I'll take charge of the trusty steed that will squire you about. Ahlia?"

Ahlia ran around the table. When she could see them, Willy, his gloved hands dancing, went through a lengthy, complicated series of motions. When, crossing his arms against his chest, Willy finished, Ahlia nodded happily. She made a short motion back, and ran from the room.

Rising from the ritual bow Ahlia had forgotten to return, Willy chuckled. "We gotta give Ahlia a head-start," he said, looking after her. "I left my coat in my office, and I guess I'm gonna need it again. I told her to meet us at the stable." Left unsaid, Willy also needed Eshle to know his plans, and possibly find something out for him. Ahlia was just the person to get that done, and report back the result. "So let's all count from one hundred, backwards."

Grandma Josephine shook her head at the nonsense, but Grandma Georgina jumped right to it, launching into _Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall. _She lifted her arms, the better to conduct the rest of them. Following along, Grandpa Joe's cracked tenor joined in her screeching, in a different key.

"On second thought," croaked Willy, "I'll bet we'll be back before you've finished that song. Etslay amscray, allshay eway?"

Poised to bolt, Willy looked to Charlie and Terence. With their agreement, they'd be his saviors, and nodding, the two looked equally gratefully back.

In seconds, as if shot from canons, all three were through the doors.

* * *

><p>"We're walking?"<p>

Puffing a little, Charlie was jogging to keep up, and Willy, noticing, slowed down.

"We are. I told Ahlia to take the Elevator."

Terence lifted a brow.

"All that sign language translates out to 'Take the Elevator and get my coat'?"

"Yes… No," Willy pouted. "…Maybe." His voice was getting silky. "I had to tell her it was in my office."

"Don't you have two Elevators for this Factory? Don't I remember you saying that? Don't you remember Mr. Wonka saying he had two Elevators in the Factory, Charlie? Yada, yada, yada, two Elevators, one track, different directions, same time, CRASH! Remember that?"

To hide his smile, Charlie put a hand over his mouth. He did remember Willy going over that crash scenario, but that was probably only because he liked its dramatic effect on his listeners. Charlie didn't believe a word of it—mostly because Willy Wonka would never knowingly let anything happen to one of his Elevators—but Charlie could tell Terence was up to something, and whatever that might be, Charlie was staying out of it.

Terence didn't mind the lack of help from Charlie. Charlie was an intuitive boy. But Terence had more on this topic he was sure Willy would appreciate.

"That story reminds me of Gomez. You know… Gomez? Of _The_ _Addams Family _fame? Ring a bell? Or should I say, whistle?" Terence looked around for the consensus he knew he wasn't going to get. "Anyone agree? Anyone?"

Either Charlie still wasn't playing, or he had no idea about _The_ _Addams_ _Family_. His face was a blank. No matter. Willy's face wasn't. He was following right along.

"You remember Gomez, old friend… Playing with his trains? Playing with his _diesel_ trains? Two diesel engines? One track? Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Wonka? About the trains? About the Elevators?"

Willy smiled through his annoyance. Willy wasn't fond of television, but he was fond of _that _show. He'd seen every episode, more than once: more than more than once. It was a silly show, but great fun, and a guilty secret. Having been there, Willy totally understood Mike Teavee's obsession with the offerings offered by screens. Come to think of it, Augustus Gloop, if he were thinner, might stand in for Pugsley. Willy had toyed with ripping off the Thing idea—using disembodied hands as coat or what-not holders—but had never gone through with it. For one thing—haha—the idea was too not originally his. It made him restless even thinking about using it. As if a bucket—haha—of itching powder were sprinkled like salt—haha—on his skin, and about to kick in. Willy's shoulders scrunched in a mini shiver. For another thing—haha—Thing's elegant hand, and gestures, would be hard to duplicate, and knowing the source as Willy did, anything less would be disturbing in its inability to match its inspiration. That not-meeting-the-standard would make even beautiful hands not beautiful, and that would make the whole endeavor not worth the effort. Willy thanked his lucky stars he'd known better than to go _there_.

Charlie nudged Terence. With a little smile on his face, Willy was moving in a trance, his eyes vacant.

"Where does he go?" Charlie mouthed. Willy might be like a sleepwalker you shouldn't wake up.

"Not far," Terence whispered, tapping the side of his head, and then Charlie's. "Further in here. Don't worry. He's always done it. His teachers hated it. They couldn't complain about it, he aced everything. He'll be back. Just wait." Terence watched for the return.

Willy mused on, oblivious. It was enough he'd been caught out ripping off the train joke, but that joke was generic enough that Willy was only mildly peeved that Terence had sussed out his source. Collisions happened all the time, everywhere, and for the very reasons he gave. Just ask any electron. Or any insurance company. Or… Enough! And what was that nattering?

"I do, Smarty-pants, but the other one is down for routine maintenance, and even if it weren't, I already said, Ahlia needs a head-start."

"She can reach the buttons?"

There was no snippy answer this time: it was Charlie asking.

"She can reach the buttons she'll need to reach."

"Isn't that lucky."

Eyes narrowed, Willy shot Terence a look.

"Lucky by design."

Willy trotted on ahead, and Charlie wondered if he should worry more. Catching the concern, Terence put a reassuring hand on Charlie's shoulder.

"Between you and me," Terence whispered, "I'm bugging him because I'm leaving town for a few days, and he'll enjoy that more if he wishes I were out of his hair."

"Leaving? Why? Where? Don't," Charlie whispered back.

Terence put a finger to his lips.

"I can't say, but I have to go. I promise, it won't be for long."

Charlie nodded.

"Is it spy stuff?"

"Might be," Terence agreed.

Hearing a conversation he couldn't make out, Willy slowed again. He raised a brow, but Terence only raised one back. Willy gave in.

"Care to share?"

"Charlie was telling me about his homework."

"Do we care about Charlie's homework?" came Willy's dubious response.

"I do, if it was learning Oompa-Loompan sign language," said Terence.

Charlie laughed.

"It wasn't, but I care about it," said Charlie.

"Why?"

"I was reading about the Underground Railroad."

"I have an underground railroad," Willy smirked. "In my rock-candy mine. How can your school know about that? It's ten-thousand feet down. I'll take you sometime." It was nice to be back in control.

"It's not that kind of railroad. The one I was reading about was for people… People in the War Between the States. It was a way for slaves to get away."

Charlie paused. Ever since the news reports of the first tour, the kids at school had been saying things. They were saying them still. Some thought Willy Wonka was breaking the law. Some thought he was doing worse than that.

Charlie's sudden reticence wasn't lost on Willy. He'd read what the tabloids splashed across their banners. He could guess why Charlie was suddenly reluctant to continue. Willy kept his voice soft.

"Question?"

Charlie thought about it. _He_ wasn't leaving for a few days, and bugging his host wasn't on _his_ agenda. But he did want to know if he could ask Mr. Wonka the things he wanted to ask about the Factory, and this was a doozy of an opportunity to find out. He hesitated just another minute.

"Are… are the Oompa-Loompas… slaves?"

Willy's voice was as soft as the velvet he wore, but the silky quality it had held earlier was absent.

"No."

The swish of clothing and the tapping of Willy's walking-stick as they moved along, filled the ensuing quiet. Willy had fallen back next to Charlie, and after they'd taken a few more steps, Willy tilted his head, to catch Charlie's eye.

Charlie, wondering if he should ask for more, or if one word could answer that question, looked up.

"Of course," said Willy, "you can't take my word for it. There isn't anyone alive who doesn't know the right answer to that question is 'no', and being alive, of course that's what I'll say. If you really want to know, you'll have to ask them."

Preparing to speak, Charlie took a breath. Willy held up his walking-stick.

"But not when I'm around. You can't ask them then. You'll have to ask them when I'm nowhere near. If I'm nearby, they'll say what they think I want to hear."

"You hope," cracked Terence.

The overcast that had formed broke a little. Willy didn't laugh, but he did smile.

"Yeah… yeah, I hope. Or they'll say the opposite… to cook my goose. They are mischievous. But I am still the boss. Slaves or not, they've a certain interest in keeping me happy. Or at least, harmlessly occupied."

That was a start. Charlie took another breath, but Willy wasn't finished.

"You can't ask the ones who work with me closely, either. Well, you can, but you can't believe a word they say, either. That takes Ahlia out of the running. And Eshle. And Doris. To name a few. You'll have to ask the others… the others other than them. The more Oompa-Loompas you ask, the better the picture you'll get. The ones who work with me closely are biased."

"You hope in your favor," Terence cracked, again.

This time Willy did laugh.

"Yeah… I hope… In my favor."

Satisfied the overcast was satisfactorily clearing, Terence decided it was time to shift the slant on the subject. Changing it entirely would look fishy.

"So, Charlie," Terence began. "What exciting thing did you learn about the Underground Railroad?"

"Yes," echoed Willy, his eyes soft, his interest genuine. "What did you learn?"

"I learned one of the most important conductors was named Harriet Tubman."

"Rub-a-dub-dub," said Willy, scooting ahead to lead the turn into yet another corridor. That wasn't that interesting.

Charlie jogged to catch up. Turning the corner, he found Willy fiddling with the spring latch on an inconspicuous door, flush with the wall.

"A short cut," Willy said, as Charlie caught up. "Ahlia's had enough start."

"Tubman was her married name," Charlie said. "Her name before that was Ross."

"Heavens to Betsy," Willy answered, leading them into the dimly lit utility tunnel. Still not that interesting.

Terence caught up, doing his best to catalogue this amazing maze. How did Willy keep it all straight? Google maps, eat yer heart out.

"Is that exciting?"

Widening the lead again, with half an ear, Willy listened for the answer to Terence's question.

"I think so," said Charlie. "She had a name I've never heard before."

"Harriet, or Tubman?"

"Not those names. Harriet was her middle name. I mean her first name. No one ever called her that."

A little shaken by the similarity in Charlie's choice of words, Willy dropped back.

Terence was hearing it, too.

"What…" Terence began, only to hesitate. He glanced over at Willy. Given the earlier conversation, what Charlie was saying was eerie. He found Willy walking slowly, as they all were, waiting for him to finish the question. "…was Harriet's first name?"

"Araminta. Isn't that a neat-o name? Until she got married, her friends called her Minty. Like the flavor of the Swudge. I bet she'd like it, if she tried it. It's too bad she's dead, and she can't have any." Charlie looked from one to the other. Like Araminta, they were stopped in their tracks. "I just hadn't heard that name before. Have you?"

"I have," said Willy, without a pause. "Once upon a time, long, long ago, although NOT in a galaxy, far, far away. I read it. In this galaxy." Willy was staring straight ahead, into the gloom, his widened eyes round. "Araminta is my mother's name. She can't try any Swudge, either."

* * *

><p><em><strong>dionne dance<strong>: Thank you. As you've read, your linking of Minty with Swudge proved very useful here. **Ifwecansparkle**: Your stories as well as your reviews inspire. __You'll recognize the paralysis you mention in _Hot Chocolate Evenings on Cherry Street _echoed in the roadkill imaginings. **Squirrela**: Thanks for the marathon! It was lovely to read. Where I can, I'm going with something you tactfully put almost between the lines: less cutting from scene to scene. It may work in a film, but maybe not so much here. **Linkwonka88**: Thanks for always giving something back, with every chapter you read. I know I'm not alone in my appreciation of your generosity._

_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. That goes for _The Addams Family _as well._


	34. Torn

"For the same reason?"

The words were out before Charlie could call them back. He'd only ever heard about Willy's father, and that not from Willy. Araminta Harriet Ross Tubman, of Underground Railroad fame, was long dead, and if Willy's Araminta, his mother—his real mother—couldn't try Swudge for the same reason, it wasn't a happy one. Charlie dropped his head, sorry he'd spoken, his eyes clouding. He hadn't meant to bring up something sad, it had simply happened.

Pretending not to hear, Willy turned away, leaving them behind, as he tapped his walking-stick in a slow rhythm along the narrow tunnel. The sound echoed back to Charlie and Terence like the tolling of a church bell. Feeling lost, Charlie took a step to follow, but Willy had come to some conclusion, and turning back, they both stopped where they stood.

"I think so. I don't know so."

Willy's voice fell on Charlie's ears like the rays of the full moon, falling to Earth, but without their proper light.

"Are you coming?"

Charlie, having looked down again, looked up, and took a hesitant step. He took another, not quite as hesitant, and Willy sighed to himself. An apprentice on eggshells would never do. If questions asked by either, cued up a queue of sharpened shards of broken calcium carbonate crystals under foot, why would Charlie want to stay? Down that path lay no future for either of them.

"I have her snapshot. Would you like to see?"

Charlie didn't know if he wanted to or not. Maybe it was none of his business. Maybe it was. He didn't know. Willy seemed to read his mind.

"If I'm only going to teach you about this sort of thing," Willy gestured to the Factory underpinnings that lined the walls of the tunnel, "and not greet you when you get home—which I can tell you now, I won't be able to do every day, or even most days, but that doesn't mean what you think that means—then you are right to call me Mr. Wonka. But I've said I'd like you to call me Willy, and if, as I'd like, you'll do that, then I'd like to show you this."

Willy had removed from his frock coat pocket the silver, folding case Terence had seen produced, but not shared, in Willy's office. Charlie, reaching out with trembling hand, took the object. But Charlie wasn't looking at it. He was looking into the eyes of his benefactor, his own eyes shining. Willy was speaking to him in the way adults spoke to each other. As if he and Mr. Wonka were equals. Charlie knew they weren't, the same way he knew he felt better calling Mr. Wonka Mr. Wonka in his head most times, but that was only because, in a fast changing world, it helped Charlie keep his mental balance. Words Charlie hadn't properly listened to at the time, floated back to him.

"You said, 'again'. You said you needed your coat _again_," Charlie breathed, elation dawning. There'd been a reason… a good reason. "Were you out of the Factory when I got home today?"

With an insey smile, the man who everyone knows never leaves his Factory, nodded.

"I was."

"With this? Is that why you have it with you?"

"With the this that you have, yes, and yes, it otherwise lives elsewhere."

Charlie ran his fingertips over the engraved silver, tracing the design. It was curvy, and complicated… some kind of leaves, filling and overflowing a multi-lined border. Though highly polished, it looked old. Charlie didn't need to see what was in this, if it were something private. The feeling that had enveloped him when he returned from school—that though invited, he was nevertheless an interloper—had vanished with what Willy had already said. Hearing it, Charlie felt like a friend… a real friend. Would a friend look at this? They were in the middle of going to fetch his Grandpa George. Looking at this now would hold them up.

As if not finished with reading Charlie's mind, Willy sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged, the Nerd filled cane across his lap. When their eyes were of a level, as Willy sank, Charlie sank with him.

"Go on," Willy said, when they were comfortably settled on the floor, a floor as spotless as the rest of the Factory. "We have time. Open it."

Breaking the eye contact he'd maintained, Charlie opened it. And studied it, his cough suppressing his gasp. His finger hovered above the snapshot's left hand side. Before he went any further, his eyes searched again for Willy's. Anticipating, knowing, Willy leaned forward, nodding encouragingly, the fingers of both his hands entwined in the spiraling glass ridges of his walking-stick; as if he knew if they weren't, they'd reach out for what Charlie was holding, to snatch it back.

Charlie looked down. His finger delicately hovered above the long, diagonal tear he found there, tracing it without touching it, respecting the wound that it was, his eyes returning to Willy's when he was done. How had the photo torn? Willy must know. It must make him sad. The tear wasn't in a good place. Was this all Willy had? Of his mother? Charlie let his eyes do the asking. Willy could answer, if he wanted to. And he did. By way of a silent exchange; subtle shifts in face and body, a back-and-forth, that Terence, forgotten in the shadows, was content to watch. Having remained where he was, Terence, in the dim light, could see nothing of what was in Charlie's hands.

Charlie looked again to the worn photograph. Willy's mother was in it, if Willy said so, but so was Willy, by dint of his youth, standing in front of her. He looked so different. He was smiling; smiling with boundless optimism. Smiling as if he took for granted that the world held only wonderful things, especially put there, for him to discover. And he was happy. Truly happy; as if he took for granted that everyone he would ever meet would be his loyal friend. Intent, Charlie didn't bother to look up.

"How old are you?"

"Now?" The joke rang hollow, and Willy dropped it almost before it registered. The shadows rustled. "Then? Who can remember?" Willy murmured. "Half your age, I should think."

Younger, Charlie thought. Slight, and thin, and pale, the sort of kid a bully would pounce on, with short hair, and short bangs, as short as they are now, and no gloves, and… and Willy Wonka was a wisp of a creature in this picture. Why, he's as thin as me! Charlie stole a glance. All those layers of clothing. He was probably still thin. Maybe it ran in the family. His mother was thin. She had delicate arms, with dainty hands, and long, tapering fingers. They trailed down Willy's upper arms, her palms resting lightly on his shoulders. Willy wasn't paying her any attention. With his arms at his sides, his hands relaxed, fingers curved, Willy was enthralled by the workings of the camera, its lens the magic entrance to yet another enchanting dimension.

"Do you hate being cooped up here?"

Charlie had no idea where that question had bubbled up from.

"No," answered Willy, as if he'd been expecting it. "I quite like it. I don't feel cooped up at all. Do you?"

"No," said Charlie. "I feel safe."

"Watch out for the machinery," Willy shot back, at once. "And for where you put your feet. And your hands. And for loose clothing. And for what you're doing."

Charlie's head snapped up, his mouth an 'o'. Willy sounded exactly like Grandma Josephine, but unlike her, he was silently laughing as he scolded. The happiness that sprang from within him, so evident in this picture, was unquenchable for long. Safe, Charlie knew, was a feeling, not a reality, anywhere, and Willy was only making the point. Charlie added his laugh to Willy's silent one.

"I mean that," Willy frowned, afraid Charlie wasn't taking him seriously. Machinery, and the rest of it, was fun, but not funny. "And don't eat anything if you don't know exactly what it is, and particularly if you don't know its provenance. I mess around with things all the time. All sorts of things."

"Pro…ven… ance?"

"Where it comes from," said Willy. "It may not be entirely invented yet."

"You mean safe?"

A glance to the shadows, and then, "Erm… something like that."

"I will, and I won't, then," said Charlie, solemnly nodding. He took one last look at the photo. The pose in it seemed familiar, as if he'd seen it recently. 'Course it was a pretty common pose: two people, one in front of the other. And then Charlie realized he _had_ seen the pose recently. In a photo at Dr. Grant's house, last night. A photo of Willy with Willy's other mother; his mother after this mother. There was something though… something different… Charlie couldn't put his finger on it. He closed the protective case, and handed it back to Willy, who took it eagerly, his pale, beaming face expectant of a comment. Charlie cast about in his mind, coming up with something he hoped wouldn't hurt.

"Your mother has beautiful hands."

That satisfied.

"Thank you. I think so too. And now we are done with this dally. Charlie? Terence? Onward!"

Leaping to his feet, Willy whirled, and soon he was far ahead, the velvet hem of his frock coat fluttering out behind him. And so they followed: Terence mulling over the use of the word 'provenance', and candies he'd eaten that looked like pollens; Charlie, illusory or not, savoring the sweetness of feeling safe, and snug. He'd seen the light in the boy in the photograph; the light in the man he was following now. He'd seen the tear in the creased, yellowed paper. Between the three things that were two things—the tear, and the boy, and the man—Charlie Bucket believed there wasn't anything that Willy Wonka faced, he couldn't overcome.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you readers and reviewers.<em>

_**dionne dance**: Araminta, a name I first heard watching _National Velvet_, and otherwise a name I've never heard_. _I discovered the Harriet Tubman connection in connection with putting a woman's face on United States currency. She was one of the five women being considered. Why? I looked her up to find out, and darn if she didn't have the name. Some coincidence, eh? I thought I'd use it.  
><strong>Linkwonka88<strong>: Thank you, I'm quite fond of_ The Addams Family_, myself, and apparently, we're not alone. The hands Thing in 1971, the Hair Toffee visual in 2005... Does that Oompa-Loompa not remind you of Cousin Itt?  
><strong>Squirrela<strong>: Isn't that always the way? You're into something, and then you run into someone else, and suddenly you're off on a tangent? Life is like that. And aren't you a good sport, to smile at my reference. Referencing that film, I'd relish having more of _your_ story to read__.  
><strong>07kattho<strong>: There _is_ a lot of nuance in the Oompa-Loompa situation, isn't there? It might be a story in itself. One thing's for sure: There's nothing cut-and-dried in Willy Wonka's world. __And the end of the last chapter__ is sad, isn't it? I had no idea how sad this story was gonna get, or how creepy. It hardly seems appropriate. But as Mr. Wonka says, it's all bound to come out in the wash. It always does. I hope. Thanks for reading, and I'm glad to hear from you._

_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended._


	35. Creases

Charlie's timid hand stole into Terence's.

"Do you think," he started, in his quiet voice, "if Willy gets too far ahead, we'll get lost?"

Terence looked down, seeing only the lank, brown hair on the top of Charlie's head, Charlie's resolute eyes glued on the receding form that had all but disappeared in the gloom. As if a firefly were leading them, random flashes of light, reflections glancing off the ridged spirals of Willy's walking-stick, were all they could see.

Terence gave the small hand in his a squeeze, as he looked again to the tunnel in front of them. Retreating by advancing, an interesting strategy, but as far as Willy's present departure went, Terence had his suspicions. 'How can they talk about me, if I'm there?' It was Willy's blithe explanation for sending Terence—instead of attending himself—to a dinner at the Buckets', after Charlie's private tour had ended. Terence remembered the observation now. This had that feel. By this time, Willy had disappeared.

"I suspect, Charlie, there's only one person in this factory who _could_ lose himself in it, which isn't the same as being lost in it, if you catch my drift, and that person just showed you a picture of his mother. As for the rest of us, _we_ may not know where we are, but someone in this Factory does, and they would come and find us."

His upper teeth gently finding the edge of his lower lip, Charlie took his eyes off the dimness ahead, glancing up at Terence. Charlie hoped that was true, but it wasn't his real worry. His real worry, he didn't know if he should bring up. He'd seen the photo. Terence hadn't. What had gone wrong in Charlie's family could be fixed with regular meals, but if that was the picture of his mother Willy treasured, food wouldn't touch what had gone wrong in Willy's family. Not even very sweet food. But Terence had been here. Willy knew that.

"Do you think so?"

It was hard to see, but Terence could hear. There was pain in Charlie's voice; pain for a loss not his own.

"I do, Charlie, you bet, every time. With as many Oompa-Loompas as there are, how could it be otherwise?"

Speaking, listening, Terence was also sorting facts. Willy had said he'd seen a picture of his mother on her passport. And he'd said he hadn't been able to keep it. So this picture wasn't that picture. Passport photos… they show the face, full on. And having shown him this picture's case in his office, and telling him he'd taken it with him to Libby's today, to see if he had a learning curve, but not earlier claiming it as a picture of his mother… there had to be something odd about this one. Blurred, maybe? Stained?

Willy's voice stirred in Terence's head. 'So ask. I'm elsewhere'. Yeah, I get that, old chap, but I'm not gonna. From what you've told me, and shown me, I have my suspicions, and that's enough. There's prying and spying, and here and now, neither suits.

"There aren't any Oompa-Loompas here."

Keeping hold of Charlie's hand, Terence kept his voice chipper.

"Now that you mention it, I suspect you're right. But notice, Charlie, so far, this tunnel is a straight shot. No intersecting tunnels. And there are no doors leading off it. I suspect Willy knows we _can't_ get lost. We just have to follow our noses, and we'll be fine."

"Okay."

Charlie was slowing, his shoulders tense. He thought it again. Terence had been with them when Willy showed him the snapshot. That must mean something. Turning, Charlie withdrew his hand, and stopped. Terence had been here. Charlie hoped that meant spilling the beans was okay.

"Terence?"

Terence almost laughed. Willy rubbed off on everyone around him.

"Charlie."

"That photo had no head."

Delving into it now was different. He hadn't been the one to bring it up.

"Headless, you say?" That wasn't the surprise it would have been, had Willy not given him the clues to let him suss it out, and Terence's tone was as blasé as he could make it. "D'ya think our Willy is related to the Headless Horseman, by way of the distaff side?"

Terence's lack of a shocked reaction was reassuring, and the encouragement Charlie needed.

"It's not funny, Terence!" Who knew what 'distaff side' meant, but Charlie didn't care. Terence didn't get it! "Her head was torn off, and most of her shoulders. And the paper was all full of creases, like someone had made it into a ball. Willy was in it. He was standing in front of her, like in the picture over at Dr. Grant's house, with his other mother."

"Thea."

"Mrs. Grant," Charlie agreed, less agitated, pleased with Terence's now somber demeanor. "Anyway, the part of the picture Willy was in wasn't torn. He was really young looking." Charlie knit his brows. "Way younger than I am. And he was really happy. Not that fake happy he does sometimes… really happy."

"So that's good."

"But it's sad." Charlie said, his eyes imploring. "Who would have torn it like that? And mashed it up?

"Ya got me, kiddo." But Terence had a pretty good idea. Dollars to doughnuts, the mangler would a much older someone Terence had met on the spear side, who had given him chills. "No one we want to know, I suspect."

Charlie forced a brave smile. "You suspect a lot of things."

"I suspect so do you. And I suspect if we don't get a move on, Willy will get tired of waiting, and leave without us. Your grandma wants your grandpa back."

Charlie didn't budge.

"Taking away someone's house, without telling them, is a bad thing." Charlie swallowed, his slim fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. "But it was one thing. With this, there are two things." Charlie swallowed again, but afterward, his jaw was set. "Are there more things?"

"I suspect so," Terence said, after a considering pause, his voice deliberate. "Would that make you not want to stay?"

Charlie had whirled at 'suspect so', and Terence wasn't sure if Charlie had heard the question. He was off at a jog, the way Willy had gone. Terence hustled to catch up, and doing so, discovered Charlie had heard him. But the answer was muffled, as Charlie didn't bother to look back.

"No! It makes me want to be there, in case Willy wants to remember anything else!"

* * *

><p>This remembering was idiotic. It wasn't advancing the ball at all, and beneath his breath, Dr. Wonka cursed his own folly. Coming here was a waste of time. These memories were awful. And some of them weren't. Some of them warmed his soul, more than the wind froze his flesh. Some of these memories squeezed out warm tears, wetting the corners of his eyes, where the cold caught them, and crystalized them, turning them into minuscule shards of ice. Breathing out, his lungs made a choking sound.<p>

It was a hideous coincidence seeing Mina again, ripping him to his core, his vanishing act following her vanishing act, but seeing her had sent him here… the place he'd vowed never to set foot again… the last place he'd seen her. Wrapping his arms around his middle, Dr. Wonka twisted back and forth, as if the twisting would twist him away from these ancient apparitions. It did and it didn't.

Disoriented, he stopped, only to find himself staring in the direction of the garden. She'd loved the garden. That's what Mina had told him. Gardens, and gardening. And she had loved it. Mina hadn't lied. Mina never lied. Even when she'd told him she could never have children—making her perfect—she'd thought it was the truth.

Like crafty fingers looking for more weakness, a dry breeze picked at the hem of Dr. Wonka's fluttering coat. The strength of the breeze was his own fault. His removing the building had made this place a Venturi, the air accelerating as it passed through. Everything was more than it should be here: everything heightened, everything worsened. Squeezing shut his eyes, crushing the crystals in their corners, Dr. Wonka let his hands, like lifeless weights, drop to his sides. It was time to admit it. Deceive everyone else if you must, but deceive yourself and you're done. William—not Willy—Shakespeare got that right. Time to own up. A ramble in the garden was why he was here.

Pivoting to face the empty air where the back door had once stood, Dr. Wonka could see that truth now, even as he wondered if, now, here, he'd have the stones to walk among the ghosts of those long dead blooms. Seeing Mina; Mina with her boy. The spitting image of her… and the other—if you could see a spitting image hundreds of yards away—but that fine point was beside the point. The specter of what he'd seen gripped him again, and in this lot, it felt so much worse. His heart felt forced from between his ribs, his breath bottled in his chest. His searing pain was like shining, slivered, silver needles, scoring, with a thousand tiny tears, every internal organ he possessed. Because Mina had surprised him. Shocked him. In the time he'd known her, spent with her, it was more than her teeth that had captured his heart. It was everything about her.

His arms clamped at his sides. Holding himself together, Dr. Wonka strove to appear normal, should anyone be watching. It wouldn't do to seem in distress. The world was his to command. Pointless now, at this late date, to lose his freedom. His hands found his pockets, searching for warmth. Finding some, Dr. Wonka drew strength. He took a deep breath, calming himself. He needn't go further. He could turn away, leave this lot. Transportation was waiting. But he knew he wouldn't. This was a golden opportunity, in a world of shrinking opportunities; golden or otherwise. He laughed at the analogy. Curse that Boy, and his Contest! It was ruining everything. His laugh rang out in the crisp air, as sharp and jagged as a frost tracing, etching itself on frigid glass. Its crackle brought him back to himself, and he dared to sneer. If The Boy could stand it, so could he.

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended._

_Thank you readers, and thank you reviewers: past, present, and future. It's been awhile, but life got a tad demanding, and as demanding as this story is turning out to be [for me, anyway] I had to step away from it. But now I'm back, and ready to finish this up… Thanks for sticking with it._

**_ButlerXArtemis_**_: Three cheers that internet access as found you. I'm sorry the wait for this chapter has been such a long one. I hope you enjoy it, and continue to enjoy the story. As far as your comment about Terence goes, I think it is six seconds, and nary a peep out of him. But hey! It's quality, not quantity.  
><strong>Squirrela<strong>: I think you're right, the man will be exhausted. And yet, there's more to do. What comes to mind is the last stanza of that poem… The one that ends "And miles to go before I sleep".* It was great to read _your_ update.  
><strong>Linkwonka88<strong>: It does make sense; thank you. **Link-et**: I sometimes wonder the same thing. Dr. Wonka is a strange duck. Strange nut? I reckon he'd best avoid his son's trained squirrels.  
><em>_**Chyna**: Thank you, you are very kind indeed. I'm pretty fond of Terence, too. Whoever played him—and I haven't found out yet who that was—got a lot across in his six second appearance. As for Willy, God bless Mr. Depp and Mr. August. You can't go wrong remembering, "Not just some something. The most something something of any something that's ever been." The hard part is to _stop_ talking that way. _;)

_*_Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening_, by Robert Frost._


	36. Proposal

That was a lie, of course. Though he'd bought it, The Boy couldn't stand this lot any more than he could. _That _was another chuckle. That The Boy had bothered to buy it. Did he honestly think I would ever sell it? To anyone? Other than him? What a fool! But the roller-coaster of glee stopped there. Doubt descended; a dryness grew in Dr. Wonka's throat, a fleeting twist in his gut. As he put himself in motion, the corner of his mouth twisted with regret.

Dr. Wonka hadn't wanted to sell; selling had never been the plan. For years, the not selling had been a bouncing source of joy. Because The Boy wanted it… oh, yes, The Boy surely wanted it. And had, from almost the moment he re-appeared in town. Dr. Wonka's hands found their way out of his pockets, to rub themselves together. It had been such a warming pleasure, thwarting The Boy in his desire. But it didn't warm him now, and his hands soon retreated.

A real estate agent, acting on behalf of some nonsense called Onward! Acquisitions approached him, and made him an offer. It happened shortly after that pedestrian shop on Cherry Street opened. It was a fair offer. Not too high, not too low; an offer Dr. Wonka graciously took under advisement. An offer he throughly investigated. It wouldn't do not to know who wanted to mess about in this lot; dear, no, that wouldn't do at all! It surprised him the holding company led to his son, but only slightly, and only because Willy had come sniffing around for a co-signer he claimed he needed, before he could lease that shop to house and sell his cavity causing monstrosities. As they had then, Dr. Wonka's eyes narrowed. He hadn't signed. More's the pity, because either that shop had really taken off, or The Boy had set him a little test. And if a little test, it was a test Dr. Wonka had failed to take advantage of, and that—the taste in his mouth was bitter—meant he'd failed it. Because if The Boy had the cash or credit to make that offer, he hadn't needed a co-signer on that lease.

Shaking his head, the soft scrunch of snow sounded beneath Dr. Wonka's feet. For old times' sake, he'd use the back door to play out this dreary charade. What did it matter that the door existed only in his mind? He'd resided in his townhouse for all his life, even if, for all his life, his _townhouse_ hadn't always resided where it had started out. Dr. Wonka had the floor plan of his humble dwelling memorized to the level of his cells.

Arriving at the spot where the door would be, Dr. Wonka stepped beyond it. And stopped. The sounds at his feet were all wrong. The scrunching was gone, replaced by scraping. There should be no scraping going on here. He had ripped out the bricks that made the landing when he ripped out the house. Forgetting his thoughts, his steely eyes snap to the ground. It's a stone. A flat, polished stone; polished not to a shine, but only to smoothness.

Its twisted shape calls forth a sneer. It's that asinine curly-cue! The stone is coiled like the start of the Yellow Brick Road, with the coil ending in an arm extending outward. Come this way it says… come this way. Dr. Wonka can hear the whisper. He lifts his head, and sees another: it's not joined to the first, but very near it, the earth between them part of the connection. This rock hasn't the curly-cue, it's an arm, extending at an angle, pointing the way. A third joins, the 'V' becomes a zig-zag. A fourth adds another zig, and extends into a flourish, like an arm outstretched, offering its palm. The pattern repeats. Head bobbing to and fro, his feet tracing its braille meaning, Dr. Wonka's lips curl back. It's his son's two iconic 'W's, the design over the factory gates—the 'W's that turn the name Wonka into a joke—modified to beckon.

Out of sheer orneriness, Dr. Wonka considers, for a moment, spitting on the invitation. With an effort, he refrains. His curiosity is piqued. From where he stands, at the edge of the foundation grade, the land slopes gently away, before it levels again. He can see there are more of these stones; a lot more. And they are not 'W's. They are something else. Something with curves and scallops, something that becomes more and more dense as the part of the garden that Mina reserved for growing flowers and vegetables is approached.

Dr. Wonka approaches. Once he has left the rise of the foundation, the pattern all but disappears in the level ground. No matter. He is standing where Mina's flower beds once lay. The memory is a fond one, and his face is gentle. It was the flowers that had accomplished the goal: the goal of persuading her to marry him. Her loss of them, that is. A smile plays around his lips. Not these flowers, but the flowers involved with her job. The flowers involved in her designs. The flowers and shop he'd used his societal connections to make the flowers and shop used at the town's most notable galas, charitable or otherwise; the flowers used at the town's most notable marriages, and funerals. The flowers, once all her shop's business was dependent on the clients he had steered their way, he had made sure—once their trust in him was unshakable—were poisoned. A little something, added to the water, just before the start of the event. By the end of the event—or if done right, much sooner—every creation a wilted ruin, ruining the affair. It ruined the shop she worked for; it ruined their reputations: Inferior quality. So sad, the shop closed. So sad, Mina was without a job. No one would hire her. No one would hire any of them.

So much for phase one. For phase two, the tricky part had been the timing. Dr. Wonka had told everyone working at the shop they could count on him as a reference. It wasn't his fault they hadn't asked if the reference were a good one. He made sure, with each inquiry, it wasn't. And with each inquiry, he'd check on Mina. The day had come, and Dr. Wonka remembered it fondly. Tipping his hat as she opened the door to her mean little flat, his polite smile and solicitous words were met with a quivering lip, and moist eyes.

Her words trembled, and the tears fell. "I do not understand." In her embarrassment, she buried her face in her hands, the sobs becoming harder to deny. "I can find nothing. My money is gone. I shall be turned out."

"There, there, my dear," he cooed soothingly, as taking her elbow he led her to the sofa. "Sit down, my dear, it's not as bad as all that." He glanced at her tiny, but spotless, kitchen. "Can I get you some tea? Some coffee?"

Minty shook her head, not daring to speak. He sat beside her. They had become good friends in the intervening months. He had found where she worked, ordering flowers for his practice. At first she had been skeptical, there was something about him, but he treated everyone at the shop exactly the same, and was unfailingly polite. The others adored Dr. Wonka, he was so dashing and well-connected, and she had learned to relax around him.

Claiming his patients loved the change the flowers made, he became a regular. When he brought the town's society business their way, they had all been grateful. When one day, he asked if she'd accompany him to one of the galas as his escort—he'd be ever so grateful if she did, he had no one, and it would give her a chance to enjoy her arrangements as well as plan them—it hadn't been as much of a stretch as she'd thought it would be to accept. She'd always wondered what these things were like.

Nervous at her first attendance, Dr. Wonka, always the perfect gentleman, had taken pains to make her feel at home in this glittering world. And Minty did feel at home. This was the world her arrangements were made for. Naturally, she knew it. She was often behind the scenes here; what was different was being out front. Turning down Dr. Wonka's offer to provide them, her clothes were her own. She was skilled at finding finds in second-hand stores; skilled at combining the dated into something avant-garde, and what Araminta chose to wear was unique, but always stunning on her. She felt like a princess, and with her dark hair, pale skin, and ruby lips, she looked like one: from a kingdom other than this one.

The beauty and spectacle that surrounded her enchanted her, and she enchanted those who met her. As she feared might happen, with knowing smiles, couples nodded to Dr. Wonka, and then to her, but Dr. Wonka always addressed her as Miss Walters, carefully keeping his distance, and leaving no doubt between them that these were not dates. As she attended others, it was always the same, and Minty soon relaxed about that as well. One night, after almost a year, at one of the more memorable events, her hand resting on Dr. Wonka's arm as he led her to the dance floor, she surprised herself by feeling a pang of regret, as she listened to him explain this fact to another couple—who wouldn't let it go—that this was still so.

And now here he was, when everyone else had deserted her—blamed her—here Wilbur still was, at her side. She'd begun to call him that, though he still called her Miss Walters, if he wasn't using 'my dear'. She didn't understand that, they knew each other so well now, but it didn't matter. What mattered was he was here. She sank against his chest, choking back a sob. He lifted his arm, gliding it around her back, resting his hand upon her shoulders, his other arm burrowing between her waist and the sofa back, to rest below the first. The feeling of security she felt being enfolded by his warmth was more than she could bear, and the sobs came freely now. He rocked her gently, saying nothing, his face, that he knew she couldn't see, a mask. When the sobbing slowed, he pulled gently back, swapping the mask for another expression. He waited until she looked up.

"Oh, Wilbur, I do not know why you are hopeful, when I feel none," Minty said. "Of what is there to be hopeful? It has all come down. Where will I go? What will I do? I have started over so many times. I do not know if I can do it again."

"Of course you can," said Dr. Wonka, stroking the hair at her temple with the back of his fingers. "Start again with me."

"With you?" Minty pulled away, but only enough to see him better. "I do not understand."

Dr. Wonka hung his head, looking away, but keeping hold of her.

"I know I'm much older than you are, I shouldn't ask, but I'm all alone, and you're alone, and we get on so well, maybe we can be alone together." He met her eyes. "I'm asking you to marry me. Will you?"

With a gasp, Minty pulled back. He let her go, but otherwise didn't move. Moving would scare the game.

"You don't have to answer. I'll go." He was careful not to move.

"No, please don't, you take me by surprise."

Minty wiped the tears from her eyes. Dr. Wonka handed her his handkerchief, and she blew her nose.

"You call me only Miss Walters. How can one marry in such formality?"

Dr. Wonka turned to face her, taking the handkerchief, and putting it aside. He took her hands in his.

"I'd like to call you Mina. Would you like that?" He searched her eyes. "It's what your Grandmother calls you, without the 't'. And it sounds like a nickname for Wilhelmina, which is like my name, Wilbur. It will bring us closer."

She laughed. It was such an odd explanation; almost all about him. She thought about it. Rolled the word around on her tongue.

"Mina."

It didn't sound bad. It had a ring to it. She looked at him hopefully, and just as quickly, her face fell. She squeezed his fingers, and made to drop his hands. Dr. Wonka held on, squeezing hers back, keeping some of the pressure on, even as he let up. It wouldn't do to let the game go. Not when it was almost caught.

"What is it?"

"I have known many men in my life, but there is something wrong with me. When they find out, they leave me, for someone else. If you want to marry, you will, too."

Shaking the memory from of his head, Dr. Wonka recoiled at what he knew would come next, the terrible secret that wouldn't leave him today, and kicking at the mocking stones under his feet that underscored the lie of it, he wondered if it wasn't The Boy's pull effecting him today, but Mina's. Mina, now that she'd lured him this close, pulling him towards her, filling his head with these memories, laughing at him at the last. If that were so, he wouldn't resist. He didn't want to resist. He surrendered himself to relive the last of his proposal. He owed it to her.

"Many?" Dr. Wonka's surprise was genuine. "I've never seen you with anyone else."

"It is tiring to be the plaything. I gave that up, and not being able to do the other, it makes me alone."

Did this revelation change anything? Dr. Wonka's brain went into high gear. No, she may have had 'many', but none of them were in this town. The people here would never be the wiser, no stigma there, and if they married, he had no plans to touch her. No problem there, either. He dropped her hands and encircled her in a brief, tender hug, taking her hands again when he leaned away. Letting her settle for a moment—she had looked away—he placed a bent finger under her chin, bringing her focus back to him.

"What is this terrible secret?"

He could see it hurt her to tell him, but if he waited, she would.

"I can never have children."

Before he could stop himself, a manic laugh filled the room. She looked wild-eyed, and Dr. Wonka knew he had to stop. Talking would do it.

"I don't WANT children! We're perfect for each other!" Dr. Wonka slipped off the couch and unto one knee, one of her hands still in his. "Will you marry me?"

She stared at him. He was serious. Her inclination was to say no. Yes, they'd grown close, yes, she'd begun to think of the two of them as a couple—they were out so often together—but he was so much older, and there was something about him, something under the surface, that was easily avoided if she didn't reach for it. But it was there all the same, and what if someday, it reached for her? The hairs on the back of Minty's neck prickled, and she thought about that. But then she thought about her situation, and the past, and the present… and the future with this man didn't seem so awful. Not compared with the fear she felt, not knowing what would become of her, otherwise. Wilbur was handsome, and well-connected, and well-off, and well, she was getting older herself. It was time to settle. So she looked into his eyes, and hesitated.

"I'm too old to be in a position like this for long," said Dr. Wonka, smiling. "Please don't make me beg."

Araminta looked into the imploring face looking up at her. He hadn't said a word about loving her. Not one. But he did need her. He'd made that plain over the last few months, asking her opinion about every little thing, and taking her advice on most of it. And he could afford to take care of her. It wouldn't be so bad. With reservation, she looked into his eyes and said, "Yes."

* * *

><p><em>Thank you reviewers, those who favorite, followers, and readers. <em>_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended._

_**Squirrela**: Thanks for your review, it's wonderful to read, particularly your last paragraph. I think you may be on to something. **Link-et**: Thanks for reviewing, you bring up some interesting thoughts. **RevolutionRoulette**: You also bring up some interesting points to ponder, and one of your points is the manipulation involved. I think that word is Dr. Wonka's middle name. Thank you for your review. **dionne dance**: Thank you for the two reviews. _Stopping by the Woods On a Snowy Evening _has always been one of my favorites, too._

_Thanks everyone!_


	37. Stone Garden

_Warnings: A marriage outside the Disney mold. Mentions of death. All in all, a chapter not conducive to holiday cheer._

* * *

><p>Schooling together, the earth and stones swam before his eyes, and Dr. Wonka wondered at the blurring. Yes, Mina had said yes, but no, the plan, as he'd hoped it would, hadn't panned out. Dr. Wonka lifted a hand to his eyes, rubbing his temples. Where these stones were taking him pressed upon his spirit, the weight of them growing with every step. Where they were taking him… Dr. Wonka's head ached. His hand dropped, finding sanctuary in his coat. This couldn't be real. The Boy didn't know. But in the back of Dr. Wonka's memory, a pale light flashed.<p>

The brush he'd tarred the Florist shop with, had tarred Mina as well, and that wasn't all. His marrying her, as he'd thought it would, hadn't undone the damage. Damage he'd inflicted. On all of them: on Mina; on the people she worked with; on the people he called his friends… _his_ friends. Among other people's, it was his friends' events he'd ruined. They didn't know the half of it, but they knew enough. They knew _he_ was the one who'd recommended the shop. The one who'd sung its praises. Blast 'em all to hell, in the end, the small-minded, petty little spoil-sports blamed HIM along with the shop! Abominable! His hands shook beneath the fabric covering them, his jaw like rebar. He hadn't considered that result.

There was more abomination. He and Mina married, but not in the way _he_ wanted. They married in the way _she_ wanted: Quietly, at his house; after dark, as if she were ashamed. In a civil ceremony, no less, attended by almost no one. A scowl twisted his features. Those had been Mina's conditions, and try as he might, she hadn't wavered from a one of them. The rebar in his jaw descended through his neck, reaching his shoulders.

Her stubbornness over the matter should have tipped him off that Mina wasn't going to be the pliable waif he'd imagined she'd be, but it hadn't. In the merit of her argument, he'd missed that nuance. After causing so much disappointment, to so many others, on the occasions of their occasions, she'd insisted it would be obscene for her to take part in the large ceremony—with all the frills—that Dr. Wonka wanted. For the occasions of those disasters that she didn't understand, she must make amends. She must keep the occasion of her marriage austere.

Deep in soft pockets, Dr. Wonka's fingers clenched against his palms. It didn't help that she'd been right. Her forbearance, and by association, his, was noted, and eventually given credit. But not enough, and not right away. Dr. Wonka had hoped, by marrying Mina, to kill two birds with one stone. She never had bitten on the idea of becoming his dental assistant, and he wanted those teeth. The marriage plan had seemed like such a brilliant fall back. For years, Dr. Wonka had enjoyed the enviable niche of the 'eligible bachelor'. That standing had provided him a steady stream of invitations. Professional; cultured; well-situated, he was that certain someone for the singles, or otherwise unescorted, no hostess could be without. One day, without a warning, it all changed. He crossed a line. Past his prime, the niche no longer fit. He became an aging iceberg, amongst a sea of marrieds. The invitations melted away. The solution was simple, if chilling. Becoming one of the marrieds would restore the flow. Unthinkable, before he met Mina, but having met her, the unthinkable became an option. Who better than Mina, with her lovely teeth, to fill the bill?

Yes, the plan that begat Operation Wilt-the-Flowers had worked, but not without its own flaws. The invitations were slow to return. His circle couldn't fathom his choice: this Mina person was beneath him… and them. She was a tradesperson, incompetent at that, and one of the leading culprits in their disappointments. Knowing better, Dr. Wonka resolved to wait out their vitriol, and as time went by, he told himself that if that never happened, he didn't care. He told himself owning the teeth were what was important, and he had them now. But this fix, of his own making or not, left him with a lot of unoccupied time on his hands. That rankled. Mina had noticed, and made a suggestion.

'You will begin some research, Wilbur? Yes?'

The newspaper he'd been reading slapped the table.

'Did you say something?'

Mina was buttering a piece of toast, her eye on the pot of jam beside her plate. With arched brow, Dr. Wonka leaned across the table, his hand sweeping the jam out of her reach.

'There'll be no jam. It might hurt your teeth.'

'Wilbur, you are jok—'

'There'll be _no jam_.

Lifting the newspaper back to his face, his tone put an end to it. The silence that followed was thicker than the jam. It felt wrong. It felt defiant. He'd gone too far, too fast. Increments were what was needed; infinitesimal increments. Dr. Wonka lowered his paper.

'I'm sorry. What sort of research do you suggest, Mrs. Wonka?'

Minty colored. That name should sound right, but it didn't. For one thing, being Mrs. Wonka shouldn't mean giving up her jam. Its yummy flavor aside, as thin as she was, she needed the calories. But Wilbur sounded so pleasant now, and it would be so nice if things were pleasant, and the jam was really only a small thing… her wrist limp, the toast dangling from her fingers, Minty sighed. Couldn't he come up with his own research ideas? What did she know about dentistry? There was his mention of her teeth. They were strong—no match for jam—and straight. So many people's weren't… but braces, to fix them... they were so obtrusive.

'I thought you didn't hear me.'

'I heard you.'

Minty slumped. Wilbur could be so grumpy. It was a new side of him; an after-marriage side. Straightening again, she wouldn't let him spoil her day.

'Perhaps you can make braces that can't be seen? So the children who need them are not called names? I would not like 'metal mouth' to fix my teeth, if_ I_ were a child. What do you think?'

'If you knew anything, my dear, you'd know what a preposterous—' Dr. Wonka froze in his own annoyance, cutting himself off. It was an excellent idea! It would bring him a whole new segment of the trade! He could charge an arm and a leg! He grinned. He could charge a jaw.

'My dear, you are so right! Why didn't I think of that?' Moving as he thought, Dr. Wonka buried his chin in his chest. At the time, it had seemed like such a good idea.

As they had before it all came apart, he and Mina made a good team. Using the latest materials, he was wildly inventive, impressing Mina with his zeal. It was such a helpful thing for him to want to do. As well as his research went, Mina encouraged him to publish his findings. He did.

Minty threw herself into restoring their good name. Her volunteer work was tireless, her good humor and optimism contagious. The attention to detail that was her hallmark, introduced doubt. There were whispers that in the matter of the flowers, she may have been wronged. But why? And by whom? As charming and vivacious as her colleagues found her to be, it was a mystery that gained her sympathy.

Beyond that, in Dr. Wonka's eyes, Mina shone. Her unfailing cheerfulness made his life rich. Looking for the smile that lent him the perspective on life he'd never have found for himself, Dr. Wonka came to rely on her. Contrary to anything he could have imagined, he discovered that felt good; wonderfully good. He began not to think of the others, or their doings. Mina became his prized possession. No, she was more than that: she became a living, breathing, extension of himself. Remembering, the rebar dissolved, and Dr. Wonka shared a smile with the earth and stones beneath his feet. That year of living happily! By the time the invitations began to re-appear, like toadstools after a soaking rain, he truly hadn't cared. That is, he hadn't cared about most of them.

The year had ended with an invitation Dr. Wonka had no desire to refuse. Mina's suggestion that he publish more than paid off. His pioneering work in low profile brace-making had landed him the keynote speaker honors at the National Dental Association Annual Meeting. Naturally, it was _his_ spotlight, but rather than be without her—how could he leave himself behind?—he must take Mina with him.

He did take her. At the time, it had seemed like such a good idea. For her benefit, of course. To underscore how lucky she was to have him. Dr. Wonka sometimes wondered if she appreciated that as much as she should. Her other condition had been separate bedrooms. A surprise coming from her, but one he'd welcomed. His own space suited him—it was only the poor who huddled together in bed—and separate bedrooms were a time-honored tradition in the best of families. Later he found it irked him as much as it suited him. Separating each night in the hall, sometimes—nasty surprise—finding himself not wanting to, pointed up what an _arrangement_ it all was. Mina wasn't supposed to know that. But between that civil ceremony—no God invited to look in on that shindig—and those bedrooms, he couldn't shake that she did know. Couldn't shake that she might be using _him_.

That galled. Using was for him, not _her_. Flushed with pride—and more than a little single malt scotch—late on the night he'd given his speech, and for only the second time in their marriage—he'd insisted on consummation—he'd shown her what's what. Not as beyond that particular form of gymnastics as he'd thought, he'd insisted Mina discharge her wifely duties, while he discharged his. It was only right; she was his, to do with as he pleased… though that ceremony again… there was no 'obey' in that civil litany. To his fuzzy astonishment, freshly bathed and scented, with a warm smile and soft kiss, she'd welcomed him with open arms.

Open arms. Like the cultivated earth of this garden had been, under Mina's hands, ready to receive the seeds she gave it. That night… This garden… Another night. Unbidden, tears welled. Dr. Wonka glanced about, feeling eyes upon him. There were none. Mina had been right about the separate bedrooms, and he'd have done better to leave her at home. He hadn't, and The Boy had stolen her from him. It was unforgivable. The eyes were still upon him. The hairs at the back of his neck were telling him so, but Dr. Wonka knew he wouldn't find them beside him, nor behind him, nor even above him. It was dawning on him what these stones were all about. They were about The Boy, curse him! Awake, when he should have been asleep; meddling, where he wasn't wanted.

Blinking away the tears too feeble to fall, with the back of his hand, Dr. Wonka daubed away a straggler. This was why he hadn't stayed. This mawkish emotion, beyond his control, creeping over him at inconvenient moments. It was why he'd moved his house. Why he'd started the process soon afterward. Acid, eating away brick. The smell masked by lilies. A houseful of them! Dr. Wonka didn't want to leave. He used to tell himself he'd win The Boy over, wrest him away from her, and it would make all the difference. He could stay. Believing that, he'd stretched the process out over years. It hadn't worked. As well as the brainwashing had gone at first, he'd lost out to a force less worthy than Mina's undermining influence: Candy. Candy! His jaw clenched. His tears dried like rain in the Sahara. Grinding together, he heard his teeth squeak. Confound that runt for causing him harm! Even when he isn't here!

'Oh, but he is here,' a voice whispered in his mind. A lilting voice, he never would forget. 'This arrangement is his.'

"Really, dear? So you think you have me, do you?" Dr. Wonka said to no one, his heart hardening. "I think I had the last laugh. But you have a point. Let's see if he got it right, shall we? Why not? I'm not afraid."

Ignoring the patterns, Dr. Wonka picked up his pace, and went to where these stones should lead. He chuckled when he got there.

"You see, dear? Stupid boy. There's nothing."

A minute later, his chuckle died in his throat. The stone he thought he wouldn't find was set at an angle, not far from where he was standing. Aghast, Dr. Wonka went to it. It wasn't the center of the design—not even close—but unlike any of the other shapes, this oblong stone, as smooth as the others, was clearly its focus. The location was key: near the edge, but still inside, what had once been Mina's vegetable garden. His face a blank, Dr. Wonka turned back to look towards a not so distant space, considering how once a certain window had occupied that space. A certain window, looking down upon this very spot. Where this particular stone was set was not right, but it was damn close. Parallax might account for the error.

As Dr. Wonka squinted, the crows' feet at the corners of his eyes pinched white. That pale flash, in that upper-story window. For all these years, he'd thought it was the rays of the moon, catching on the glass. He understood now there was another explanation. The Boy's pasty face, being hastily withdrawn. It made him shiver. It couldn't be… but it must be. He could hear The Boy laughing in his ear.

'Bet ya know now why I wanted the place, don'tcha?'

That slang!

'I'll wash your mouth out with soap!'

Rollicking laughter split his skull.

'Can't, Papa dear! The bar would never fit! Your braces are in the way!'

He heard Mina's silvery voice joining The Boy's.

'The last laugh's on you, mon chéri!'

In his head, or at his feet, Dr. Wonka couldn't tell anymore. Their laughter was all around him. He retreated to where the toolshed had stood, not knowing that as he did, he disappeared from the screen in Dr. Grant's study. The retreat did no good. His breath coming in ragged gasps, Mina and Willy's mirth combined against him. Against him, as they always were, with their bright little smiles, and silly games.

Dr. Wonka could stand it no more. With his palms pressed against his ears, his fingers curled in his hair, he ran to the sidewalk, to the street, stumbling, lurching, over the frozen ground. On the sidewalk, he struggled to get his bearings. It must look bad. The driver was out of his limo, one hand splayed across its roof, the other on the frame of the door, poised to sprint to his aid.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Panting, his arm across his middle, Dr. Wonka struggled to catch his breath. Struggled to stifle the voices. The driver's concern wasn't welcome, but it was sobering. Dr. Wonka managed to stand upright, to slow his breathing.

"I'm fine," he barked, the anger warming the blood in his veins. He caught sight of the Grants' townhouse. Good old, snooty, Dr. Oral-Surgeon-family-dentistry's-too-good-for-me Grant, the man who never missed a National meeting in his life. Dr. Wonka would go there. Find out what the old coot knew. "Bring the car, and meet me at number 916. I'll walk."

The normalcy of his voice frightened Dr. Wonka, but maybe something else was frightening him. Maybe it was that he'd been spared blackmail all these years, or worse, prison, by people who could have skewered him. He'd certainly have skewered them. Was he supposed to be grateful? Whatever they thought he was supposed to be, Dr. Wonka knew one thing. He had to get away from this from this Lot. From this place… Away from the most elaborate gravestone he'd ever seen.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you reviewers, for taking the time to comment. Your perspectives make my day. And thank you readers. I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended._

_**Guest**: Thank you. If true, it would be sad, but Minty's assessment of her capabilities may have been premature. **Squirrela**: It is interesting to see how people think of themselves, reflected in what they call themselves. They say, "What's in a name?", but I think more than meets the eye. Along those lines, the musical makes the point that you never really know who's standing next to you. I guess whether that's a good thing, or a bad thing, could go either way. Thank you. **Ifwecansparkle**: Thanks for all your comments, your descriptions are most welcome. 'The Addams Family' not withstanding, thanks particularly for your kind remarks regarding closing lines, and Terence. I'm flattered. **dionne dance**: Fear not, I don't think I could take that either! I've the creeps just thinking about it. As far as Wilbur and Minty go, I think Wilbur is one of those, "What have you done for me lately?" types. Thank you._


	38. Adventurers

The gravestone before him was nothing fancy. It was as plain and simple as the fact of the loss it represented. Supported by the bench near it, Dr. Grant sat, his unfocused eyes softening its rounded edges further. He sat easily, with tilted head, hands atop his walking stick, at peace. The Snowdrops had done that. And Willy had come to see him today. Willy. Today. Always invited, always welcome… but, oh, dear me, never expected! His aged eyes brightened. Well, sometimes the unexpected does happen. Yes, siree, sometimes it does! Like finding you've won the Lottery, when you'd not remembered you'd bought a ticket. The crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes deepened, foretelling the smile that creased his lips. Like winning Willy's Golden Ticket Contest, when you'd thought you weren't eligible?

A happy 'harumph' followed on the smile's heels. He should have known, though. The townhouse they had once shared hadn't been Willy's first stop. No, siree, not hardly! When Dr. Grant had first arrived, he'd seen, placed across Cyn's grave, a bouquet of golden-centered, Icelandic white poppies. They indicated the true timeline. Stepping closer, Dr. Grant had understood Willy's reluctance to return; his turning down the offer they visit Cyn together. The flowers Dr. Grant found were as fresh as the surprise of Willy's visit. And that meant… Dr. Grant stooped, picking among the very real poppies, searching, removing the sugary Snowdrops tucked alongside. They'd be out-of-this-world tasting, and Willy wouldn't mind. He'd retired to the bench with his tender treasure, savoring the excruciating lightness of their delicacy, dissolving in a flood of flavour, almost before you knew they were on your tongue. His eyelids drifted lower, his face transfixed. Visits, maybe so, but when it came to candy, Willy didn't disappoint.

The Snowdrops dissolved, Dr. Grant sat there still, his thoughts subsiding to merely tracing the slice of condensation rising from Willy's central cooling tower. Curling above the skyline, it rose towards heaven. Where Cyn was, he fancied. Like the Snowdrops: lovely; delicate; dissolved. But the vapor was getting harder to see, even as the slice was expanding. The day was fading, and it was getting colder.

"Goodnight, Cyn dearest. I miss you."

Quiet answered. Sighing quietly back, wondering why he was still here, Sin rose. It was time to head home.

* * *

><p>Dr. Wonka rapped the knocker to no answer. He rapped again. The silence echoing behind the door was eerie. As eerie, come to think of it, as this interfering couple ending up living on <em>his<em> block. They weren't from around here; they weren't returning to their roots. How _had_ that happened? It was true he'd seen Grant at the Annual Meeting every year. It was true they knew of each other. That was unavoidable. But those two, moving here? That was as avoidable as it gets. Grant's practice was cutting edge, in the big city. Why leave that? Dr. Wonka shifted where he stood. Should he try and rouse the old coot again?

A scholarly type, Grant was forever presenting papers. Mostly, hoity-toity oral surgeon that he was, on jaw re-construction techniques. Car wrecks, cancers, birth defects, that kind of thing. They'd bored Dr. Wonka for the most part, though some of the do's and don'ts he'd later had occasion to find useful. His grin at the remembrance was fleeting. Though they had become nodding acquaintances—one did at these things; networking, you know—he'd never thought Grant liked him. That was fine. He didn't much care for Grant. He hadn't met the wife until they'd moved here—Grant never brought her with him—and once he had met her, Dr. Wonka wished he hadn't. She was some attorney or other… too busy to bother to attend her husband's events. The muscles at the base of Dr. Wonka's jaw tightened. At least the time he'd brought Mina along had shown Dr. Know-it-all Grant that his, Dr. Wonka's wife, knew where _her_ place was. It was wherever he told her it was. Suddenly anxious, Dr. Wonka shot a furtive glance towards the hole in the line of houses on the other side of the street.

Not sure if he was shrugging his shoulders or shivering, Dr. Wonka turned back. The excuse the Grants had passed around town for leaving the bright lights and excitement of the city, was to semi-retire. The deadly dull of this town must not have suited them though, because not six months after moving here, they'd chucked the tedium of their new routine for the far more exciting thrill of ruining _his_ plans! Years of careful work, thwarted! More precisely, that gawdawful wife had stepped in, sticking her nose where it wasn't wanted. Till then, she'd spent her time playing 'help the poor', an activity best served by charity galas and lip-service. She'd played poor too, walking to the bus stop each day, when Dr. Wonka knew she had a perfectly good car. Why? Sometimes he swore it was so she could get a glimpse of The Boy; maybe talk to him. She never had. Willy knew the rules better than that. Till the day he'd moved the house, that is. She'd talked to Willy that day, by God!

In the midst of his rising anger, Dr. Wonka suddenly felt the constrictions of anxiety gripping him again. Not remembering that day, but remembering the events of a week or so later: The day he tried to reclaim The Boy at the schoolyard. It had almost stopped his heart to find her, not The Boy, there. The Boy was with _them? _He'd half-listened to her ice-cold accusations… meaningless drivel, until she'd said: "I know where the bodies are buried, Dr. Wonka, so unless you want an abuse case paraded through the courts… and the press… stay away."

That choice of words… and the horror of his name, dragged through the mud! He'd done nothing wrong, she'd lose, but the chance! Courts were dicey. And the press? Odious. His throat dry, Dr. Wonka's mouth moved like a fish. Now, as then, he wasn't getting enough air. It was being sucked out of him. What was he doing here? Like that hole across the street, he must leave this place, these people … these sleeping dogs. These secrets, these failed schemes… the street was closing in on him. Dr. Wonka stumbled down the steps, steading himself with the handrail. His face pale, rivulets of sweat beaded his temples. His driver, seeing this relapse, was out of the car, opening the back passenger door, holding out a hand.

"Water," Dr. Wonka mumbled. "I must have water."

Dr. Wonka slid across the seat, the driver handing him the plastic bottle he'd taken from a recess in the door. Nervous eyes danced to the cap, and back up to the driver.

"Could you open that, please?" Anything to buy some time.

The driver untwisted the cap, handing the bottle back.

"Thank you." Dr. Wonka drank, his jumbled thoughts vying with each other for supremacy. He wasn't done yet. He could still win. Terry didn't know. He could go bully Terry. He should have done that in the first place. There'd been no reason to flee. The Boy wouldn't be there. It was outside his Factory. There was no chance of contact. The Trust was safe. It needed to be safe. Dr. Wonka needed the money, for same reason he'd been forced to sell The Boy the lot: a string of bad investments, made after The Boy had returned, putting Dr. Wonka's spies, the source of his grand, ill-gotten income, out of business. Dentistry didn't pay a quarter so well. But he still longed to know what The Boy was planning; he needed to know. He needed to prevail. Terry would tell him. Dr. Wonka decided.

"Take me back to the hovel," he snapped.

"Of course, sir."

The right words, but bitten off.

"Please." Dr. Wonka said the word as if he'd meant to say it all along. As distraught as he'd been, normalcy was a requirement now. Deviant behavior in children and the elderly resulted in unwanted interventions. He couldn't have that, now, could he?

The driver swung into his place behind the wheel, thankful his cantankerous client looked less like he was about to expire, and more like the man-in-control he'd picked up. Lowering his foot to the gas pedal, the car pulled smoothly away.

As it did, Dr. Grant rounded the corner. Like Willy's plume in miniature, rising threads of condensation caught his eye: the exhaust of an accelerating car.

"Well, I'll be! I say, Cyn, looky there. A limousine! Pulling away from our curb! Is Willy sending in his new friends as reinforcements?" Grinning at the thought, with a cheery wave, and a quickening of his pace, Dr. Grant tried in vain to attract the attention of the receding car. "Too far," he said, as he gave up. "Oh, dear! I say, though, they'll be back if it's important."

With a resigned shrug, Dr. Grant closed the gap to his stoop. As he reached his door, the car disappeared around the corner at the end of the block. His key hovering in his hand, Dr. Grant looked after it, the street now quiet.

"I wonder who that was?"

* * *

><p>"I wonder which way we should go?"<p>

Terence and Charlie had reached the end of the utility tunnel, Charlie still holding Terence's hand. The corridor they found themselves in was empty, and where they emerged, it curved in either direction, which limited the view.

"Let's be quiet, and see."

"Do you mean hear?"

Terence glanced down at Charlie. Was he pulling his leg? Nope, the face turned up at him was as sincere as they come.

"You and Willy are going to get on famously, Charlie. D'ya know that? Yes, I do mean hear, but by hearing, we'll see."

Charlie nodded. They were quiet, and heard nothing. It was time to feel the air. Willy couldn't be far; he'd know the curving would make for an adventure in choosing the correct direction, but where Willy wanted them must be nearby, or he'd have waited. With a shake of his head, Terence tightened a corner of his mouth. Knowing Willy, he'd have stationed a kick-line of Oompa-Loompas, waiting to turn them back if they went the wrong way. A kick-line of laughing Oompa-Loompas, ready to give them a swift kick in the drawers for their error. It had that feel about it. The truth was, sensing people in both directions, Terence couldn't tell.

"Charlie, what say you, we handle this the way Willy would?" Without waiting for an answer, Terence began chanting, as loudly as he could, _"Eeny meeny miney moe…"_

_"The left's the right way to go…"_

At the sound of that flutey, sing-song voice, Charlie's grin was ear-to-ear.

"And there you have it. Left it is."

One curve and a few short paces later, they found Willy ensconced on the floor, signing rapidly to Eshle, who was signing as rapidly back. His voice had sounded fine, but Willy was paler than ever, and if anything, Eshle's face was flushed. Deadpan, Terence quirked a brow.

"Signing as fast as you both are, and at almost the same time, can you understand each other?"

Terence expected they'd ignore him, and except for a muttered, "Way to go, ya got here," from Willy, they did. Whatever the signing session was about was upsetting Willy, and angering Eshle. Terence hated not knowing what they were saying. For not the first time, Terence cursed not knowing this language. Ahlia stood to one side, shaking her head when Willy signed, nodding at her father's answers, all the while with Willy's greatcoat draped across her arms, swallowing her up. Whatever they were saying had her in a state of disbelieving wonder, as if she'd never considered _ever_ what they were talking about, but whatever her opinion on the subject was, she knew better than to interrupt. Terence thought he'd do that again.

"Okay then, d'ya ever worry about carpel tunnel syndrome setting in, blathering along like that?"

Willy and Eshle turned as one, their expressions blank. What did those sounds mean? They went back to their signing, but soon finished. That is to say, Willy, his face reflective and unconvinced, stopped signing. Eshle, noting this, decided to try a different tack. He turned to face Charlie.

"Willy is distraught—"

"I am _not_ distraught!"

Eshle's glance back at the speaker was as pointed as it was brief. There wasn't a soul seeing him who believed him.

"—Distraught, because he thinks that because we work for him, and only for him, and only in this Factory, his Factory, and no where else, that we think we are his slaves. Pure and simple, Master Bucket, we are not his slaves. We are not anyone's slaves. We are here because here is where we want to be, on account of our own free will. But if you hear anyone insist that we _are_ slaves, you can tell them from me that it's not to Willy. Cacao beans maybe, we do adore those things, but Willy didn't buy us, he doesn't sell us, and he doesn't own us."

Charlie's embarrassment turned his face a shade of ripe strawberry. "I didn't mean to say…"

This, thought Terence, is as good a time as any to air this subject. Charlie's having brought it up has clearly shaken Willy, but Charlie did nothing wrong, and he shouldn't feel as though he had. Terence went ahead with the elephant-in-the-room question.

"Aha! That's what _you_ say, but of your own free will, can you leave?"

"Any time."

Ignored by all, a timidly curved finger raised itself ceiling-ward, as if to point. It was as timidly withdrawn, the accompanying, "Not exactly…" smothered by the ongoing conversation.

"But you don't."

"But we have."

Willy's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, with Eshle keenly aware of the change.

"You didn't know?"

Shaking his head, Willy's face registered hurt, then doubt.

"There's always a few malcontents. It's not your fault. They all came back."

Willy tilted his chin, not trusting his voice. Eshle elaborated.

"Except to go back to Loompaland, no one's left for years." Eshle placed a finger on Willy's knee, as quickly withdrawing it. "I know you know about those."

Willy minded the finger more than he minded thinking about the Oompa-Loompas who don't want to stay. No doubt why Eshle did it. Different strokes for different folks, but Willy did tend to take the wanting to leave personally: as if he'd failed them in some way. Willy tried to shake it off, but with regret, he nodded to Terence and Charlie.

"I do know. I take them. Anyone who wants to go."

"There aren't many," chimed in Eshle.

"Not many," agreed Willy, with a glance, "but a few. I go twice a year, less or more. There are flavors to be had in Loompaland, with Whangdoodle blood not being one of them." Longing to hear a reassuring squeak from his gloves, Willy flexed his fingers, interlacing them, his thumb tracing back and forth across his palm, but the pale gloves spun of spider-silk he wore were silent. He reached for his walking-stick instead, cradled across his lap, and finished his thought. "My candy is safe from that putrid, slimy, shiny, sickening, purple glop, let me assure you." Tilting his head, Willy paused. "The green caterpillars aren't that hot either… No offense."

"None taken."

But having settled again, Willy was elsewhere—probably taking a mental inventory of Loompaland flavors, including how much of each he has on hand—and Eshle waited. Charlie shivered. Willy frowned, making a mental note to be more careful about what he says out loud. Hey! Glop is close to Gloop! Like the stuff that came out of Augustus, when the Oompa-Loompas made him thinner!

Seeing Willy's face lighten for some reason, Eshle spoke, needing, now that this was out, to explain.

"Willy."

A pause. A long pause. The benefit of the doubt felt like the way to go.

"Eshle."

"It happened when we first arrived. There were some who thought that if your Factory were a good place to be, some other place, out beyond it, might be better."

"The Swudge is always greener," offered Terence dryly.

Willy felt like he was floating. 'The Swudge is always greener'… did Terence just say that? 'The green, green Swudge of home'… This _was_ home… How could _anyone, _seeing this place, _living_ in this place, think _any_ place else was better? Today had been a long day, and it wasn't over. The endorphins associated with exhaustion came roaring over him, and suddenly, everything was funny. Swudge was funny, home was funny, green was funny, Terence's flat delivery was funny, it was all just too, too funny. Careful not to disturb his hat, Willy leaned forward, laughing, holding his hand across his forehead. Terence dropped down next to him.

"You okay?"

"Yes," said Willy, looking over at him and smiling. "The green, green Swudge of home."

Charlie moved to join Ahlia.

"They were wrong," Eshle started, yet again. "But a few had to see for themselves—"

"Ya know," said Willy, getting a grip on his laughter, "when the Oompa-Loompas first arrived, this place didn't look like this. It looked kinda drab compared to now… I hadn't even _invented_ Swudge yet. Maybe I'd a wanted to leave too, if I didn't know what my plans for how the Factory was gonna look were—"

Terence held out a hand. "As gripping as that may be, Eshle was saying…"

Eshle continued.

"For one thing, they discovered the weather's the worst out there. For another, they discovered the people aren't much nicer. If they're not laughing and pointing at the midgets… their word—

"Better than 'freaks'," piped up Willy, remembering Mike Teavee's assessment.

"—who they have no intention of hiring, by the way," agreed Eshle, nodding, "they're thinking we're runaway children, and turning us over to the authorities—"

"Us? The authorities!" That had Willy's attention. "Did you go?"

"You know I didn't, I'd never have kept that from you, but I dealt with the ones who got caught at the time, and I heard all about it. They begged me not to tell you. You had your hands full with your plans, and I didn't want the lapses of these adventurers to ruin the opportunity for the rest of us."

"Huh." Willy steepled his hands, resting his index fingers on his upper lip. "'Kay, I think."

"Which authorities?"

"Child Services. Specifically, our adventurers discovered that escaping Child Services is tiresome and difficult."

"Yeah," said Willy, his eyes round, amethyst reflectors, reflecting on a fate he'd narrowly escaped himself. "That crowd! They say they mean well, and maybe they do, but I coulda told your crowd they wouldn't enjoy that."

"But they did escape—"

"Not surprising. They escaped Loompaland… No offense."

"None taken… and they got back, and no one's ever left for the other side of this Factory's walls again."

"The cautionary tale is that good a deterrent?"

Disheartened, Willy's ''kay, I think' preying on his mind, Eshle spoke with dejection.

"No, Terence, it's not. We don't tell it. Which is why Willy hasn't heard it. I'm sorry, Willy. I should have told you at the time. But we didn't know each other very well then, and you'd already had people do bad things behind your back. I didn't want this to end before it began. To live with myself, I told myself that you did know, and that you were looking the other way. Can you forgive me? Can you forgive us? If it helps, what we discovered was, it's not about what's bad on the outside. It's about what's good on the inside. We love living here."

"That's nice," said Willy, his voice dreamy. He'd drawn up his knees, with his arms wrapped around them, his walking-stick dangling from a listless hand. There was a permanence to the pose that made Terence question the future.

"So Willy."

He stirred.

"So Terence."

"Do you still have an interest in seeing the other side of this Factory's walls this evening?"

"No," Willy answered, in that still dreamy state. "I agree with Eshle."

But before Charlie could begin to feel the disappointment he'd then have to hide, Willy was on his feet, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

"But Charlie is in charge of this foray… I'm just the transportation. Lead on, my dear Charlie, lead on. And anyway," with a knowing grin, Willy gave Charlie a tap on the shoulder so Charlie would know he didn't mean it, "aside from Charlie's crotchety Grandpa George, who or what could be out there to spoil our fun?"

Rising, Terence took Willy's greatcoat from Ahlia's arms, her fingers reluctant to leave the warmth of its folds.

"Then time's a wasting, Willy," said Terence, handing Willy his coat. "Lead us to your promised steed."

"That way," said Willy, draping his coat over his arm, and waggling his fingers as if he hadn't a care in the world. "Ahlia will show you. To Elevator Maintenance, Ahlia, as fast as lightening. Eshle and I will catch up."

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading. If you'd care to, please fav, follow, review. __**RevolutionRoulette, Guest **__(who writes remarkably like __**Squirrela**__), and __**Linkwonka88**__, thank you, thank you, for your reviews._


	39. Aftermath

Taking up a position beside Eshle, Willy watched the others go. When they had, Willy turned to begin signing, his hand glancing across Eshle's shoulder.

'Before they went, did you know the adventurers were going?'

Eshle shook his head. The touch had been as delicate as it was deliberate. It may have been meant as payback, but it wasn't the same. Tilting his head towards the ceiling, Willy closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he crouched down, restoring a sense of equality.

'I haven't time for this. Neither have you. We've a Factory to run. I've been out galavanting. How'd it go today?'

'Smoothly.'

'By which you smoothly mean to say it went smoothly overall, yes? You don't share with me every little hiccup, do you?'

Little hiccup? This was going to go in the 'little hiccup' bin? Like a hiccup, Eshle's eyes widened for a second.

'Not if I can solve it.'

Willy nodded.

'You betcha. If you told me about every little glitch, we'd never get anything done.'

'But I went behind your back.'

'They went behind your back.'

It was too much to think that something kept hidden for all these years would amount to so little. Eshle's signing was tentative, his face mirroring his disbelief.

'Two wrongs don't make a right?'

'It'd be a wrong we'd must needs right if they hadn't come back. They came back. Back then.' Willy folded his hands, only, not a minute later, to unfold them. 'So what happened to them? Anything fun? Do I know them? How many left?'

'Seven, in the first wave to come over, and no, you don't. I sent them back to Loompaland with you, when you were bringing the others.'

Willy pulled his head back and down, hunching his shoulders as if someone had thrown cold water on him. The giggles that erupted were bitten back stand-ins for gasps.

'Eshle! You didn't!'

Willy waited with wide eyes for Eshle to confess he hadn't. With nothing forthcoming, Willy managed to make his hands wheedle.

'Now's the time to say...'

The flat stare Willy got for his trouble never wavered.

'You did!' The fingers of Willy's left hand flew to his lower lip. That meant nothing in sign language, but it did express shock. Needing his hand to go on, Willy removed it from his lip. 'I thought they were helpers.' As slowly as he was signing, he may as well have been whispering. 'So sweet of them to volunteer! I remember them because they went to great lengths not to make eye-contact. The entire time. I thought they were being nice.' Willy's hands stilled, his face pensive. 'Did they _want_ to go back?'

'They left the Factory without permission… Without telling anyone. They jeopardized us all. THAT told me they didn't want to stay. It didn't matter what they SAID after that.'

Willy's giggle was as sharp as it was free. It was almost a crow.

"Holy crap, Eshle, you're kidding!" There was no signing that! Willy was talking. "Remind me not to cross you. No wonder no one leaves through the gates, if that's what's got 'round as the fate that awaits."

Willy's eyes were sparkling as he climbed to his feet.

"If _I_ leave through the gates, can _I_ come back?"

Now Willy was having him on, but Eshle felt relief nonetheless.

"Of course you can. It's your Factory. You can do whatever you want."

Willy shook his head. He'd started down the corridor towards Elevator Maintenance, but now he turned back, and having turned back, he bowed, low, making the Oompa-Loompa salute he'd adopted across his chest.

"Oh, no, my dear Eshle, it's not. And no, I can't."

Holding the salute, and the bow, Willy raised his head, his amethyst eyes aglow. They were on a level. "This is _our_ Factory, mine and yours, and everyone's who's made it what it is."

Willy straightened, the salute unchanged. "And now? Now I've brought in some Buckets. Empty Buckets, with little but strong staves going for them. And we are going to fill them up, you and I, yes indeedy, we are! With this Factory we'll fill them. And maybe, when we're done, they, like us, will take to it, or maybe, like those adventurers, they won't, and they'll leave. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Willy's shudder showed Eshle Willy didn't think it would be. His eyes were taking on that vacant look, but before the look took hold, the shudder became a shake, and Willy's smile was back. "Which will make it an adventure for us, to see which of those whiches it will be."

In the next liquid motion, the salute dissolved. Willy's arms and hands transformed themselves into pointers: Eshle indicated by the right; himself by the left. "But I? And you? I dare say? And everyone else here who we love who loves this wonder?" The point ended, and the curled fingers of Willy's hands nestled against each other at the level of his waist: a schoolboy, about to recite the lesson. "For we poor creatures, it's done. The end. Fini. Full stop. Period. We'll never leave. This creation of ours, this creature…" a rolling flip of the fingers, and back to the pose, "it captured us, years ago, and heart and soul we surrendered to it, and _I_… for one… shall happily die, a slave to this Factory."

The flow of words ended. For dripping seconds, there was nothing but the sound of breathing. In another second, with the words' meanings washing over him, Eshle, bowing his head, crossed his arms in the familiar salute. There was no other answer. What Willy said was true. It touched Eshle to hear it.

Seeing in Eshle's demeanor his same joy in their shared fate, Willy, in a mood, stepped forward, and before Eshle could fully drop the salute, Willy swept Eshle's descending arm into the crook of his own. He then led his right-hand man in a round, skipping turn, as if he were swinging his partner in a square dance. It had been a dance reflected Eshle. A long, intricate dance—over many years—and just as enjoyable. But the twirling over, a promenade was not to be. Starting them both down the corridor, Willy had dropped his arm and surged ahead, Eshle trotting to keep up.

"Before we get to The Great Glass, dear Eshle, finish telling me what you know about dear Terence's bugaboo-limo."

* * *

><p>Like a shadow caught moving out of the corner of your eye, Dr. Wonka's limo glided to a stop at the corner of Hovel and Hill. Dr. Wonka alighted, and the impression of a black stain only grew. Nora and Noah were standing at their side-by-side trucks, waiting for the last of the next load of crates to find their places. Nora's gentle voice broke the companionable silence that had grown up between them.<p>

"Who do you suppose that is, dear?"

"Hard to know, dear," answered Noah, swinging round to discover what she was talking about. When he saw, his breath caught in his throat.

His wife looked sharply at him, but putting his cupped hand to his mouth, Noah coughed, and that seemed to satisfy her. If she didn't recognize it, there was no need to tell her this wasn't the first time he'd seen that car today. She'd seen it, too. The trunk of it anyway, as it drove away, if she'd noticed that, but perhaps it hadn't registered. She'd been otherwise occupied. But Noah could swear it was the same one. The same one that had stopped to enjoy the show earlier. The one that, when Noah had pointed it out, Terence, returning from fetching Charlie from school with Nora, had chased off. No, that wasn't right. The same limo that had_ taken_ _off_, when Terence approached it. Curious. Things had gotten kinda cloak and dagger after that, though Noah couldn't guess why. That was for Terence to worry about.

This time was different. Before, no one had gotten out of the limo. Now, someone had. Who? Noah was wondering himself. Terence had been pretty interested in finding out the first time. Was he still? Where was Terence, anyway? With no way to tell, Noah put that musing aside. The fellow across the way looked at least as old as were his and Nora's parents, but in finer form. Much finer. He looked fine all around: clothes; car; the way he carried himself. He should have been someone you wanted to meet, but Noah felt the opposite. His normally curious wife was hanging back herself. She'd normally be off across the way to the corner, to introduce herself, and find out who he was, but it wasn't happening.

"Do you think it's someone from the city?"

Maybe that was the issue. This fellow looked used to getting his way. The way he stood tall, surveying the scene as if his permission were needed to proceed, made that a possibility. But the hunch to his shoulders, as if, in spite of his imperiousness he was peremptorily ducking a blow he feared was coming, was out of place.

"I don't think so, dear. It's late in the day for those types."

"Umm… I guess so." Nora paused. She should go see, but her feet wouldn't move. The person of interest hadn't noticed them yet; he had stopped, to get his bearings, or perhaps he was looking for someone. He was looking in every direction but one, never allowing his body to turn in any way towards it.

"Dear?"

"Yes, dear?" Noah answered, smiling to himself at his wife's use of Willy's favorite get-the-conversation-started construction.

"Is that the car that Terence…" Nora didn't finish the question. It wasn't the question she wanted answered. "Do you think that man is afraid of the Chocolate Factory?"

"Hard to know, dear, but he sure is being odd about it."

The newcomer was being odd about it. So odd, Noah glanced up the hill, to reassure himself. The way this fellow was acting, you'd think he thought the Factory was alive. That it would leap off its foundations, and attack him. That it would crush him, flat and bloody, like a bug, splatting on a windscreen. The image made Noah shiver. But nope, the Factory was as solid and indifferent as ever. The normal up the hill didn't help. The oddity was here. Anxiousness joined Noah's feeling of cold. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, dancing in place on the balls of his feet.

"Thinking of running, dear?"

Nora was only half laughing at him. He looked down at the marks his shoes were putting in the chilling earth.

"Huh. I think I might be."

The movement caught the gentleman's attention. Noah felt Nora's hand on his arm; her fingers felt like talons, digging into his coat. Turning to her, Noah found her eyes pinned by the eyes of the mystery man. He was looking directly at her, staring, and the look Noah saw in those eyes was one he never wanted to see again. The light in a reptile's eyes outshone the warmth Noah saw in that baleful look, by a thousand-fold.

"Mr. Bucket, Mrs. Bucket! The trucks are ready!"

"Praise be," muttered Noah. Taking his wife's elbow, Noah steered her to her waiting vehicle. "Get to the Factory, sweetheart. Don't stop for anything. I'm right behind you, and we're not coming back until that guy is gone. I don't care who he is, he doesn't belong here."

Nora didn't try to speak. She nodded her agreement, the color returning to her cheeks now that the stare was broken. She gulped a little as she climbed into the truck, but with the doors locked, she felt safe in its cocooning space. Thank God for Willy Wonka and his trucks! And his Factory! As she pulled away, Nora tried not to look, but in her peripheral vision she could see the raised arm, the quickened pace; the attempt to get her to stop. With tears stinging her eyes, that made no sense to her at all, she knew she'd die before she'd do that.

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading. __If you care to, fav, follow, review. I'll be thrilled if you do. Writing of reviewing, t__hank you, thank you **Squirrela** and **dionne dance **for your lovely comments. I appreciate them no end. Cheers!_


	40. Up And

"You're determined to go to Space today, aren't you?" sighed Terence.

"Nah-uh," replied Willy, pointing to the button Charlie should push. "Go ahead, Charlie. Push it! We won't really go."

Charlie's eyes had widened to the size of full moons.

"Could we go?"

"Natch," smirked Willy, revealing his perfect teeth. "But I have it on good authority we haven't time before dinner. Go ahead, push it! It'll be fun."

Charlie pushed the button labeled 'Final Frontier'. The Elevator leapt forward like a race horse bolting from its starting gate, only to switch course and speed, preparing to leave the Factory.

"Hang on," crowed Willy, delighted.

They did, but that chore was easy. They were sitting on purpose made jumpseats, and strapped in. Once they were out and shooting upwards, the Earth lay in map-like form below them. Terence felt the wonder of the feat for the second time, and Charlie for the first. Who knew what umpteenth time it was for Willy, but it mattered not: he was as entranced as they were. About the time they were convinced he never would, Willy reversed the Elevator's course, returning earthward at a stately rate.

"How high were we?" Charlie's eyes were shining.

"93,627 feet," said Willy, making it up. They'd been at ninety-three thousand something; it wasn't a lie.

With his own question, Terence cocked a brow.

"Stalling, are we?"

"Kinda," sighed Willy. "There's just so much galavanting about town to be done in any given day, and today I've about reached my limit."

Some of the marvel left Charlie's face. This errand was an imposition.

Some wasn't much, but Willy, as he brought the Elevator to a low hover over the Factory, noticed. "Limits aren't the same as limitations, Charlie. Limits are for expanding. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't want to. Hey!"

Willy's exclamation saved Charlie's having to think up a reply to a situation he earlier had given no thought to, but which he now felt was pushing. Resigning himself to not knowing the workings of recluses well, Charlie looked in the direction Willy was pointing, trying to discover what it was that had so enlivened the chocolatier. Not much, it seemed. Only two Wonka trucks, maneuvering in the courtyard for unloading. The gates were already closed.

Willy's gloved hands were pressing against the side of the Elevator, his forehead as near to the side as the brim of his hat, and the round, dark goggles he had donned would permit. Head atilt, he peered over at Terence.

"Two trucks! Tsk, tsk. And all this time I thought you were shirking."

'Who, me?' mouthed Terence, pointing at his own chest, an expression of shocked horror covering his face.

"Yes, you," Willy smiled, turning back to the view. "Who then, if not you then, is in the second truck?"

"Noah."

"Dad," chimed in Charlie, at the same time.

"Noahdad? No, I don't know-a-dad. Why do you ask?" A flip of Willy's hand cut off any attempt at a response. "Ditched one factory's doings for another's, did he? There's a good idea. I admire his choice. Why?"

"Why do you admire his choice?"

Willy made a face, and Charlie laughed. Willy did, too. There was activity below.

"Oh, look," said Willy. "They're out of their trucks. Wave!"

They waved, and the two on the ground waved back. Nora did a passable job of wiping the worried look off her face, and Noah wondered how Willy got that nifty piece of machinery to do what it did. It wasn't the one he'd seen before in the Factory, or in front of his house. This model was smaller, and quieter — a lot quieter.

"That's one problem solved," continued Willy, still waving. "Your parens now know you're with me, Charlie. That should thrill them. Why _does_ Noah work in that toothpaste factory, anyway? Don't answer that, Charlie, I don't want to know."

Charlie, off the hook again, let loose the breath he had taken in.

"The 'why' I do want to know," said Willy, "is why yer pater decided to spring himself from Smilex. Stop waving, we're off before the parens can call off this mission. That's not waving they're doing down there now, they're making other something gestures, and I don't want to know what that is, either. Till later, anyway. Everyone with me on that?"

There were nods and murmurs. The waving on their end stopped, and Willy put the Elevator back in motion. That put Noah and Nora into a dizzy, and now it seemed they were asking the Oompa-Loompas unloading the trucks to hurry. The world is becoming an incomprehensible place, thought Willy. Who would want to be in a hurry to leave the Factory? Turning to find Terence pre-occupied with the parens, Willy gave him a poke with his walking-stick.

"Why?"

"Ow!" Terence took a half-step back. "Watch it with that!"

"Why?"

"Are you kidding? Why watch it with… oh," Terence got it. "I sprang him. I needed someone to watch the trucks, while Nora and I picked up Charlie."

There was a pause while Willy processed the intel. It had been a full day.

"Ah yes, the Peyton Place opportunity, so lately discussed."

"The Peyton what?"

Dark goggles turned in Charlie's direction. Ah, right, Charlie is here. I really will have to think before I open my mouth. "Place." That was safe enough. "The opportunity fer yer mater to tell Terence about her morning."

"The Chocolate Room! I almost forgot!"

"Space will do that…" muttered Terence.

Charlie brushed him off. This was more important. "Did Mum like it? Was she impressed? Is it okay for us to live there?"

Willy sighed. Of course it was 'kay for them to live there. Why wouldn't it be? Why would he show them that, if it wasn't? What was and what wasn't done in his Factory _he_ decided, except, he'd concluded, where Charlie was concerned. Where Charlie was concerned, there were those parens to parry. Impediments to get through, or around, before what you wanted done, was done. Like a soufflé removed from the warmth that had swelled it, Willy began to deflate. Inside that great, black coat, his shoulders slumped.

"Ask her. It's fine with me. She expressed concerns the room might be too nice for your house." Both hands having found the top of his walking-stick, Willy tapped it on the floor of the elevator, once. "That's poppycock. She should know better. I _gave_ her a sample of what your house will look like when I finish with it. That says it all."

With his jaw set, Willy turned away, not wanting to occupy himself with what was occupying him: others questioning his decisions. Instead he occupied himself with an ordering inventory of what he could see below: buildings, farms, and fields… no, there were none of those, just buildings, streets, and people. And cars. And, hey, looky there, if that wasn't a black limousine, parked outside of Terence's shop. Ha! Eshle hadn't known what had happened to it, other than to confirm Terence's account. Willy stepped from the side of the Elevator, pressing buttons to slow it, his voice strong.

"Hey, Terence!"

"Hey, Willy!"

Willy laughed. Excited was _not _the pattern. Using the top of his walking-stick, he pointed.

"Is that black vulture yonder, roosting at your doorstep, your black limousine?"

In an instant, Terence moved to Willy's side. Charlie kept quiet.

"Why, yes, dear fellow, I believe it is," Terence said smoothly. "Can we get closer?"

"Sure can," Willy beamed. "I think that's where we're supposed to be going." His fingers flew over the buttons. Buildings, people, cars: they passed oblivious beneath the gliding Elevator, only a few of the people looking up. This Elevator, when not using its after-burners, was very quiet.

"Hey, Terence!"

"Willy, I'm right beside you."

Willy laughed again. They were in a hover now.

"Isn't that the Blob?"

"The blob?"

It was Charlie, butting in, afraid that if he didn't get himself back into this conversation soon, he'd be left out for good.

Willy swung his head to study Charlie, his thumb like a heartbeat, closing and re-closing against the side of his walking-stick. Here was that same problem again. What to say, or not say, in front of Charlie. Crossroads time I reckon. No way I can keep quiet about what I'm seeing. Should I take Charlie over to what's left of his house? Drop him off? A quick little delivery? Via air mail? He'd be safe there… the bugaboo is here, not there. There's safety in numbers, and his parens will be back down themselves, in no time. But no, Charlie is one of the players. An important one at that… The most important one, even if he doesn't know it yet. But I do.

His mind made up, Willy shook his head, his hair moving softly. Pussyfooting was silly. Charlie could take it or he couldn't. If he couldn't, well… But there was no way to get into this ocean slowly. Nope, no way. The only way was to dive right in, splaa-ash! Putting a hand to his mouth, Willy giggled as he lived the image in his head, the shining droplets of the splash spewing skyward in happy commotion. The thing was, they all joined up again at the end, each with a story to tell. He may as well tell his. Only… If he went down this path, there'd be no going back.

Well.

Whatever.

With a nod of his head, Willy dismissed the problem. Terence has already helped clear some of the heavy stuff, I've been telling him, and the practice that's been will serve me a peach.

"_That_ blob," said Willy, happy as a lark, "would be Ficklegruber the younger, son of Ficklegruber the elder, the elder Ficklegruber being the Ficklegruber of feckless spy fame." Frowning, Willy tucked in his chin and glanced over at Terence. "No offense intended."

"None taken," came Terence's dour reply.

"The Mr. Ficklegruber that sold the ice cream that would never melt?"

Behind his goggles, Willy's eyes were shining. Charlie already knew!

"Yes!"

"Grandpa Joe told me the story. Mr. Ficklegruber was one of the people who made you shut down your Factory."

"He didn't _make_ me, I did it myself, but yeah, that's what I did. And it did, you know. Melt. It just took a long time."

"How come you don't sell it now? I've never seen any. Or heard of any."

"I didn't sell it then. It was experimental. Your Grandpa Joe only knew about it because he worked in the Factory. I discovered what I used to make it not melt could hurt you. Kill you, in fact, but not right away. Slowly. When I discovered they'd stoop to stealing even the things I hadn't perfected, I shut down the Factory. It was the only way I could think of to keep the dangerous things from being made by others."

"But it was too late. Mr. Ficklegruber made it."

"But he stopped."

"Why?"

"Because I wrote him a letter, explaining it to him, and explaining how I would proceed if he didn't stop. The letter was enough. Freddie felt so bad when he found out the ice cream was so bad, he gave up candy-making entirely. He leaves me cold, but I respect the gesture."

Making his hands into a 'T', Terence made an obnoxious buzzing sound.

"Ow," said Willy, making a half-turn to the side, while covering his ear.

"Even-steven then, Mr. Wonka, so sorry to cut short the this-is-your-life session, but I'm calling a time-out. He 'leaves you cold'? Talking about ice cream? And you're on a first name basis with Ficklegruber?"

Willy's reply was a sly smile. "So you caught that. _I_ liked it, and no, not really, but I know it."

"Bully for you. Any chance we can get back to the matter at hand? I don't know which is worse: the limo or the cad. Where do you see him?"

"Coming up the hill. He's watching us like we're a UFO, when we're a KFGGE. Ha, ha! We're a K'figgee! A K'figgeewonk! 'K's at both ends! 'Kay? I wonder if anyone would be interested in a fig flavored candy? I've got the name."

"A what?" Willy was off again, but Terence was wondering.

"A 'Known Flying Great Glass Elevator', silly."

"That was silly of me—"

"You could make them be hard candies," cut in Charlie, "shaped like the Great Glass Elevator."

"Yeah," said Willy, "with a gooey center, like the people inside it."

Charlie wrinkled his nose. "Ew, for the description, but yeah… Maybe with more than one gooey part, like more than one person, with a different flavor for each one—"

"In little compartments, with complimentary flavors!"

"Guys!"

Terence's hands were moving to make the 'T', but Willy, not wanting to subject himself to the noise again, headed him off.

"There, right there. See?" He pointed with his finger. It was rude, but the Blob deserved it. "It looks to me like the Blob is coming from Charlie's house." _There_ was a reason not to drop Charlie off there. Willy's eyes narrowed behind his shades. "What's up with that?"

"Ya got me. He wasn't there when I was there."

"There is where you should be."

Terence took a moment to think. Willy waited. Charlie watched.

"The limo doesn't worry you?"

Willy shook his head. "Nah, it's probably someone from the city council. You told ink-brain down there I was putting in a park I'm not putting in, and those guys, visions of dollar-signs dancing in their heads, were in a phoning frenzy this morning, finding out if that were true. Permits, fines, fees… whatever they could think of. Doris had her hands full setting them straight. They didn't want to be. They probably sent someone over to see for themselves. You know… talk to the _spokesman_."

Terence couldn't see the glare he knew was there behind Willy's shades, and that was dandy with him.

"In that case, I owe Doris an apology. So drop me off. I'll follow the Blob. You and Charlie can get George, and then get back to the Factory."

"And run the city-council gauntlet?" Willy sniffed. "No way."

"Park on the roof. You've done it before. Send Charlie downstairs to get George. If you run into any problems, you can take off, and Charlie can walk home with his grandfather."

It still sounded like the lion's den. But Willy didn't have a better plan, so keeping his reservations to himself, he set a course for Charlie's house. As they went, Willy couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else wrong with this plan, but what it was wasn't coming to him.

* * *

><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, and if you've the time and inclination, please let me know what you think._

_**Squirrela:** Thank you for your review. Your thought that Nora run over Wilbur is an interesting one, but doing so might upset her, and that's __not even mentioning all the bad karma that would bring her.__ **Dionne Dance: **Thank you for your review. Since when, indeed? The pile of rocks at the top of the hill turns into the refuge. I'm glad you're enjoying the story and the changing perceptions of the various characters. **Linkwonka88: **Thank you for your interest. Stay tuned for further developments._


	41. Out

At the edge of the Bucket house deconstruction scene, at an altitude of a little less than a hundred feet up, Willy pulled the Elevator into a screeching hover. The sun was setting. That hour of half-light, when objects are hard to see, and anything might happen, was upon them. Upon them indeed, and all sorts of things that oughtn't to be happening were happening. Fingers below were flipping switches. Switches that were turning on lights. Lights that were driving back shadows. Shadows that in this morning's light, these switches wouldn't have touched, because in this morning's light, these switches hadn't existed in this place.

Shadows and lights aside, there was hustle-bustle. Too much hustle-bustle. There were way too many people… far more than before. Behind the lenses of his goggles, Willy's eyes narrowed. A corner of his mouth tightened. _There's_ the flaw in this. The dropping off part. And there's another flaw. If the limo belonged to the city, it wouldn't have left when Terence approached. It would have stuck. If the chump in the limo were from the city, talking to Terence was the _point_. Willy put a steadying hand on the glass of the Elevator.

But the limo did leave. And now it's back. At Terence's shop, no less. That made no sense. A flee-or, flee-ing back to the flee-ee's business? A bad feeling began to form in the pit of Willy's stomach. It rose into his throat. He was missing something about that limo… maybe missing something about its relationship to Terence. But that wasn't all, gosh darn it. He was missing something going on right down here. The bad feeling got worse. He was missing loads of things it seemed, and that wasn't good. Things didn't work out so well when he missed things. The constricting muscles in Willy's chest began to remind him of the staves of a barrel. His breathing shallowed. Playing calm, turning it all over, looking for the facts he didn't have, the question Willy formed was measured.

"What is all this?"

"Lights."

Terence's hands were in his pockets, as if he were hiding something.

"Camera, action," muttered Willy, his other hand tightening around his walking-stick. "Nooooo… it's not just lights, dear Terence. It's people. Lots and lots of people on this li'l ole lot. Why?"

"You wanted this done. With these lights and extra people, it will be done by morning."

"Being done by morning isn't needed." Willy frowned. His voice became soft. "My part won't be done by morning."

"You can finish your part at your leisure."

"You can finish _your_ part at _your_… no, I suppose you can't, you're right, I do want this done." Fidgeting, Willy frowned again. "And you want your part done…"

Willy's voice trailed off, but his mind was racing. Terence was being studiously blasé about this activity that was anything but. Terence wants this done this minute… yesterday even, he said so… _I_ said so. I did say that, but not by _morning_. Not by _tomorrow's_ morning… But Terence is doing it, was _already_ doing it, this afternoon, finishing moving the house in no time, in the blink of an eye, like, just like… LIKE. That put the brakes on. Willy shook his head, clearing it, and started again. _Why_ is Terence doing this? Because something is up, because Terence said he'd get it done, because he said he'd _oversee_ getting it done, yes, oversee getting it done, and now he wants it done _now_, because, because… Because when it's gone it'll be… THIN AIR!

Getting to the end of it, his jaw going slack, Willy dropped his hand, taking a step away from Terence, to face him.

"You're leaving."

It was not a question. The timbre in Willy's voice conveyed his sense of betrayal. Silent, already knowing, Charlie's hand reached out. Willy stepped further back, avoiding the touch.

"I—" Terence began.

"We agreed I'm not wasting your time…" Willy whispered.

"I—"

"_I_ was wasting _my_ time... This was already in motion, you were _doing_ this… You _knew_ you were doing this, all afternoon, all the time I was talking to you, telling you things, telling you—"

The monotone Willy was speaking in was flat but accelerating, the one conclusion he'd reached right, but the ones he was heading for wrong, and the wrong ones were no where Terence wanted Willy to get. With his history, Willy getting there would be a loss for them all. Terence couldn't let this snap, and it was about to. Learning his lesson from last night, Terence pushed his intentions out of his thoughts, and so kept them off his face. Slipping his hands out of his pockets, he strode forward, and snatched up Willy's left wrist, holding it tightly at shoulder level.

"Willy MISTER Wonka! YOU did this!"

Terence's voice was like iron, his eyes burning into the centers of Willy's dark lenses. Like a husk torn away, the easy-going demeanor was gone. Charlie had never seen this side of Terence before, but he wasn't afraid. It was confidence Charlie felt. Terence was doing the right thing. The anxiety building in Charlie since the start of Willy's robot-like speech drained away. If it took forever, Charlie knew Terence wouldn't let go of Willy's wrist, and he wouldn't speak again, until Willy did.

Though he longed to, Willy didn't struggle. To lose would be unbearable. Being caught in this grip was unbearable. Being watched in this glass Elevator was unbearable. Thank God it was getting dark, and they were too high up to be seen clearly. Heck! Thank God for the lights down there putting what's going on up here even more in shadow! Terence needs to let him go, but Willy can tell he won't. He won't. He won't let him go. He won't, curse him, let him… Hey! And like a Vermicious Knid, burning up in the atmosphere in a streak of fiery light, blazing across the night sky, the gesture's meaning illuminated. Hey! Ha! Double ha, hey! Straightening from the rigid semi-crouch he'd adopted, like hardened wax before hot bronze, Willy made the effort to let his anxiety drain away. When he had, he took a small step forward. The only resistance left was in Terence, where he held Willy's wrist. Willy spoke first.

"Heavens to Murgatroyd, I _do _have a middle name. It's 'mister'! Well, I'll be."

Willy's voice was soft, with the musical lilt of laughter. Stepping away, Terence instantly dropped Willy's wrist.

"That's better," said Willy, mildly. "I take it by this demonstration, you mean to say you'll be back?"

"I will."

Willy stood at attention, finally setting his head at the smallest angle. Terence answered the unspoken question.

"As soon as I can."

The sentry stood for a minute longer. Then, with a small move of his shoulders, Willy laughed.

"Whatever that means. That was … an effective demonstration."

"Sorry. It was all I could think of to get the message across."

"You did. By the way… don't ever do it again."

"Would I have to?"

"No."

Willy looked down, and having resisted the impulse so far, shook out his wrist, using the gesture to indicate the scene below.

"I hate to keep your fans down the street waiting, I see they are waving, as they think I am, but how is this something I did?"

The bantering tone that Willy used when he was happy was back, and hearing it, Charlie sighed with relief. Willy threw him a glance.

"I'm sorry, Charlie. This is neither the time nor the place for these sort of things, any of these things that have gone on on this little jaunt so far—What did we set out to do? Drain the swamp?—But sometimes these sorts of things insist on sorting themselves out at the worst possible times, in the worst possible places. This latest thing... I do have my insecurities, and though I try my darnedest to secure myself from them, they sometimes secure me." Willy's voice took on a wry note. "As you've just seen."

"I'm not sorry, Willy," said Charlie. "I'd like to know who you are. I'm glad you're okay."

"Humph."

For a minute, that sound was all Willy could manage. Charlie had said his first name with touching sincerity. Another thing to add to this jaunt. In another minute, Willy could manage more. "Good luck with that, dear boy, and I wouldn't go that far, but thank you." With a sweep of his hand, and a doff of his hat, Willy bowed in Charlie's direction. "And now… back to you, and I did this, Terence?"

"You did insist I stay in the Factory," said Terence. "The watchers watching the watcher phoned me today. Ask George. The phone ringing off the hook was the first thing we heard when we walked through the door this morning. Yup. They were right on it. With the astounding feat of staying at your place accomplished, they want a one-on-one debrief, soonest, but not here. They want it where it won't make you suspicious, and that means at headquarters."

"They think you leaving won't make me suspicious?"

"Not in their minds. Leaving is what I usually do, and admit it… wouldn't me hunched over a pint, deep in a lengthy conversation with some new guy in town, worry you? What with me, having overnight, learned all the secrets of your Factory?"

Willy laughed.

"Yeah, that's true and not true."

A look of confusion crossed Charlie's face and was gone. Terence didn't know the secrets of Willy's Factory any more than he did.

"So not to make you suspicious, I'm off to the capitol—"

"How suspicious."

"—to see some new guy they've put on the case. All hot-to-trot, he is. Used to be a field agent. Thinks if he gets the facts from the horse's mouth, he'll get the insight. Everything I've seen, everything you've said… Everything you've done."

Willy's giggle was infectious.

"The poor slob! What a bore! I hope you'll showcase my inane prattling. I put a lot of thought into that. Doesn't pulling you out like this, ahhh—"

"Blow your cover?" supplied Charlie.

"That," agreed Willy.

"I'm to dazzle you with a plausible story. You know… some relative or other kicking the buck—" Terence glanced at Charlie. "I mean, umm, a wedding or what-all to attend. I put them off until tomorrow. Told 'em you'd never let me back in if I didn't complete my end of the bargain about the house before I left."

"So true." Swapping his walking-stick to its behind his back, parallel to the floor position, Willy sunk to his chin to his chest while he thought. "Ten points to you for the 'watchers watching the watcher' bit. That is fun to say. Were it not for the risk of boring you, I'd say it again. So those watchers watching you knew about that by this morning? They must have watched you go in."

"They must have watched me go to my shop. They didn't lose a second with that phone. It was already ringing."

"Did you not know about them? If not, why not? Isn't that your job? This is doing nothing for my insecurities, except making them more secure, and that's nothing to crow about." Freeing a hand from his walking-stick, Willy tapped Charlie on the shoulder. "If spending a night in my Factory is grounds for government abduction, dear Charlie, you and your familia better keep on a close watch out for black bags being slipped over your heads. Better yet, don't leave the Factory. I coulda told ya that's always a bad idea."

"Really?" said Charlie, two octaves higher than his normal voice. "Is that what you were worried about this morning, Willy?"

"No, actually—"

"Willy is being overly dramatic, Charlie. This is not an abduction. I spent part of my life working with these people. They are not going to harm you—"

"Nah, they're after me—"

"Keep your frock coat on, Willy, they're not _after_ anyone, but there's no doubt now you've managed to get their full attention, and no, I didn't know about them. I'm getting soft and lazy in my retirement—remember that? I thought I'd retire here—and my former colleagues obviously don't trust me—"

"Doesn't that come with the territory?" Willy tilted his head to Charlie so they could share the joke.

"—as I thought they did—ha, ha, very funny—but hustling that up," Terence pointed to the dwindling house project, "should give me some credibility with them. My plan for them at headquarters is to showcase that you make candy."

"That might work," smiled Willy, rocking on his heels. "I do make candy."

Charlie's curiosity could stand it no more. If you listened long enough, grown-ups usually let on what they were talking about, especially if you were a good speller, but these two didn't.

"Who are these people, and how did you get their attention?"

"Ah," said Willy, "Who indeed? There are folks out there, Charlie, who share my interest in the Final Frontier, but who want to hog it all for themselves. We don't see eye-to-eye on that, and if this were a staring contest, they want me to blink. At the same time, they aren't sure it's with me they're staring. That's what they're trying, using Terence, to find out."

"With that prolonged Factory visit, they're sure you're taking me into your confidence."

"That's funny," Willy giggled, in a most malicious sounding way. "They won't when they see you. They'll think I'm toying with you."

"Why's that?"

For answer, Willy only smiled.

"Terence."

"Willy."

"I'm changing the subject. There is no way I'm dropping you off down there. There are far too many people. I'd be mobbed, in that snazzy jacket I gave you, you would, too, Charlie would be crushed, the parens are still at the Factory and wouldn't approve—"

"Of me being crushed?"

Charlie was laughing.

"Yeah, that," answered Willy, "I'd get in trouble, and the Blob has no interest in us. He's seen the Elevator, made an unsightly gesture… take it from me, he's very rude, Charlie… continued on his way, and Terence, he's about to turn on to your street. If you ask me, the party's at your place. The Blob believes the turkey in the limousine is more interesting than we are, and as that's not possible, we'd best, ere we lose your talents, find out who it is in that limo."

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><p><em>I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading; reviews are fun._

_**Squirrela**: Yeah, how 'bout that limo and Willy? It looks like he's re-thought it's importance in __this chapter. Thanks for the review._


	42. And Sirens

Nimble fingers reached towards the buttons that would put the Great Glass Elevator back in motion; just before he pushed them, Willy's fingers curled back against themselves, his hand withdrawing, his hesitation plain.

"We're not going?" said Terence, perplexed. "We should."

Willy cocked his head, considering.

"They see us. It'll look like I'm running away. They're working hard down there, not hardly working. They deserve some recognition."

"Later?"

With Felix no longer in sight, Terence was itching to know who this high-end stalker might be. Who it was who was stalking _him_, at his shop, where Mr. Stalker would find only George. The culprit, or culprits, may well be the people on the other end of the phone line this morning. Not finding him there—their supposed eyes and ears—would they appreciate the disappointment? Terence pulled himself out of his speculations. Willy's face was glowing blue, and so was Charlie's. A strange reaction to a question, but then, it wasn't a reaction: it was an effect. Everything facing the top of the hill was glowing blue. Terence swung his head. The blue lights unveiled by Willy last night were back in action, the Factory bathed by their illuminations.

Willy smiled. "Eshle wanted to know if he could turn them on again." Noting Charlie's grin, Willy nodded to himself. "From now on, I'm going to turn them on every night. It's not like people don't know I live there. And they know about the Oompa-Loompas now. Why keep up the low profile? Lights don't change that ya still can't get in, if I don't want ya in." Standing back, Willy paused, uncurling his index finger and placing it on his jaw. His next words were soft indeed. "Present company excepted, of course."

Terence, moving his arm across Charlie's shoulders, bowed. Charlie, taking the cue, did the same. Willy hardly noticed, and cared less. Letting his fingers drop to the glass at his waist, a smile of rapture graced his face."Don't they look magnificent?"

Terence had to smile at the dreamy delivery. "The Oompa-Loompas?"

"No, silly, the lights—" but whatever else Willy was going to say was lost in a flurry of action. Leaping forward, his fingers were flying over the buttons, and the Great Glass Elevator was climbing, soaring over the buildings below them, cutting the corner to reach Terence's shop. The white lights along the Factory wall had clicked on as well, but it was the searing white and blue lights of an ambulance's flashers that had Willy's attention. Careening down the hill, it had zagged onto Terence's street, its siren unheard over the Elevator's rockets. Willy was sure it was wailing.

Altitude told the story Willy feared. The limo was gone, replaced by the waiting ambulance, the attendants already up the paltry steps, the door left open, the light within streaming onto the street. While his passengers gawked, quick movements of his head betrayed the darting of Willy's eyes behind the dark lenses of his goggles. Where to put the Elevator was the question now: In the street? On the roof of the shop? On the roof below them? Willy was thinking the worst, which was the worse for thinking—not conducive at all!—and before he could decide, the worst happened. A sliver-haired figure, slender, and large enough to be a man, was being carried on a gurney from the shop.

"Oh, look," breathed Willy. "I've killed George. Do you mind, Charlie? He was old, you know."

Not sure if he'd heard him right, Charlie shot a glance at Willy, but not for long. Was it really his Grandpa George being carried out by those men? It couldn't be! But it might be. There was a chance. Charlie's hands went to the glass, flattening themselves as he pressed them against it, struggling to see. And then he sighed. The vapor of it fogged up the glass for a minute. It wasn't his Grandpa George! Hooray! He unglued his eyes from the side of the Elevator, his hands relaxing. It was impossible to make out the features of whoever it was from underneath the oxygen mask strapped to his face, but Charlie didn't have to.

"That's not my Grandpa George, Willy! There's my Grandpa George!"

And it was true. There was George, emerging like an apparition from the interior light, following the gurney down the steps, his mouth moving and hands gesturing with the eager ticking-off of all the things these people aiding should be doing.

Willy, seeing it was so, puffed his cheeks like a prairie chicken, letting the air out with a whoosh. Phew! That bullet dodged! He smiled warmly. "Oh, goody! Then let's park on Terence's roof and watch the rest of the show."

The rest of the show was Felix, hustling up the street, waving his arms and shouting. He couldn't be understood of course, but whatever he was shouting earned him a spot in the ambulance, next to the stricken individual being loaded into it. Just before he was gone from view, Felix glanced up at the Elevator still hovering above the street, a sly grin splitting his face.

"The Blob must know stretcher-man," observed Willy. "What is this smirk at us for? Am I the only one who thinks he looks like a poorly carved Halloween pumpkin? Look away Charlie, that man seems to know only one gesture. Which isn't surprising, as dull as he looks. Ew… look at that! Not you Charlie. He's switching it up. Using two hands. Deary, dear."

George had seen them by now, there being nothing wrong with his hearing, and he was gesturing wildly that they land on the street. That sealed it for Willy; Terence's roof it would be. Willy was still maneuvering when sirens blaring, the ambulance pulled away, and by the time he hit the button that would open the Elevator's doors, George was opening the door that led to the roof. The show was over.

"Ding," said the Elevator.

"Didn't you see me waving at you down there, Candyma— uh, Mr. Wonka?" said George, hopping mad at having had to climb the stairs, but deciding at the last second he'd best not be rude. A week ago he wouldn't have been able to climb those stairs! Hell! This morning he'd doubted he could do it, but after Willy Wonka's magic whatever it was in those dragonflies he made… "I wanted you to land on the street!"

"I can't imagine why," sniffed Willy. "This thing is hard enough to see in the daylight. We might be hit by a car, or some other something down there, and we wouldn't want that now, would we?" His lips were a thin line, the stare of the goggles impersonal.

"Darn tootin' we wouldn't, but—"

"Then wonderful, Charlie is here to bring you back to the Factory. Your better-half wants you."

George cocked his head at the last, thinking that in future he'd better watch himself with his 'candyman' sobriquet. The tone, and Willy's phrasing, including the lack of a 'we', stood out. Still…

"Not in the contraption, thank you very much. That thing is higgerdy-jiggerdy. It can't be trusted. I'd rather walk. Charlie, get out of that thing this minute!"

"Suit yourself," said a glacier, "but I must be getting back. Charlie?"

Charlie hung back. Willy was holding out his hand, an indication that Charlie should go with his grandfather, but Charlie didn't want to go with his grandfather. His grandfather had been rude, and judgmental, and he was like that a lot, for no reason, and it shouldn't be encouraged, and he was wrong about Willy, and the Great Glass Elevator, and trusting, and his mother and father _knew _he was with Willy, and this wasn't the first time he'd been in the Great Glass Elevator, and they were just back from _almost being in SPACE! _for gosh sakes, what did his grandfather know, and… And… And if his Grandpa George wanted to walk, he could jolly well walk by himself! Charlie wanted to stay with Willy.

Terence, watching Charlie's mobile face wheel through its kaleidoscope of emotions, could imagine his thoughts. The crossed arms and planted feet left no doubt. George, by turning this into a matter of trust, hadn't helped himself any. In a blink, claiming the gesture meant for Charlie for himself, Terence slipped through the Elevator's open doors.

"Why, thank you, Willy," said Terence, on the way out, "don't mind if I do. Good idea, George, let's walk. You can show me what you've done with my shop today, and Charlie and Willy can fire-up the welcoming committee for when we get back to the Factory." Terence turned back, raising his voice. "That okay with you guys?"

Charlie's head might snap off from the nodding he was doing, and Willy, stepping back, had already pushed the button that closed the Elevator's doors. Taking his elbow, Terence herded George out of the way, and the Elevator was off, the both of them hunching as they sought shelter, their hands held over their ears. Stinging dust and grit blew in whorls around them.

"Couldn't he wait until we got back inside?" grumbled George, opening his eyes when the gale subsided.

"Apparently not," said Terence, pulling the door to the roof closed behind them as they went through. He paused before starting down the stairs to give George the once-over. "You get that you bring a lot of this on yourself, right? Willy's a lot of things, but thick isn't one of them. What you dish out, he'll serve back. Do yourself a favor. Be polite. You don't have to like him to do that."

"I like him," said George, but the look in his eyes said he'd never really considered the possibility before. Before, Willy Wonka had always been the competition: the story Charlie wanted to hear before bedtime; the person Charlie thought about as he fell asleep. It was tiring going along with that every night, when you wished in your heart that person was you. But it must be so: times were tough, and dreams were needed, so he'd kept his resentment to himself. Joe's worshipful stories were about all the family had to offer Charlie dream-wise: happy little stories, about happier, bygone days. If George weren't living it, it would be too much to believe the happy little stories had turned themselves into odd reality. Perhaps he _should_ consider how he felt about it. Unexpected smoldering resentment wasn't doing him much good; with Willy Wonka, or with Charlie. They had reached the landing. It was time he put the ball back in Terence's court.

"I can tell you I don't like your other friend," he mumbled, as they started down the next flight of stairs.

Terence, in the lead, raised a brow. "And which other friend would that be?"

"That smart-ass who pulled up in the limo, treated me like a servant, and left in the ambulance you saw."

Alert, Terence slowed. The limo and the ambulance might have been two different people. Willy must think so. The limo was gone when they came upon the scene, and as far as the ambulance went, knowing it hadn't been for George was all Willy had cared about. George's intel would change that.

"My friend? Has he a name?"

George scowled at the question. "Fat lot of good it did me, if he does. He wouldn't say. Said you two went way back… said telling me would spoil the surprise."

"Huh. Do I like surprises? I take it that didn't make you happy?"

"He had a way of talking that made my skin crawl. And I didn't believe a word of it."

"Why not?"

"He called you Terry. Said he wanted to see Terry. Went on and on about where was Terry? When would Terry be back? Why didn't I know? What good was I? Said he wasn't budging. Said he'd wait all night, if that's what it took. He's why I didn't leave. He wouldn't leave. I was locking up when he got here. I asked him who the hell Terry is. He looked at me like I'd slapped him. It took me a minute to figure out it was you." They'd reached the back of the shop. George stood up straight, proud of himself. "If he called you Terry, Terence, I knew he couldn't possibly be your friend."

The observation pulled Terence up short. George zigged not to run into him, his piercing eyes in their wrinkled sockets cutting into Terence's clouded face. Terence felt the burn, and quickly recovering himself, laughed.

"Everyone calls me Terry, George. It's just Willy and folks I've met through him who don't. Your mystery man could be anyone. My God, look what you've done with the place!" Terence strode out into the shop proper, spreading his hands. The shop was immaculate; everything organized and arranged.

"Eh, don't look too closely around the edges," said George, letting Terence's diversion slide for the moment. "There's only so much an old bag o' bones like me can do in a day."

"I won't look there at all! The only way I avoid clutter is by having nothing in the first place. You're welcome to fill in here any time, George. This shop was getting away from me."

George frowned, taking that claim with a grain of salt. True, Terence didn't seem like the retail type, but George doubted much got away from him, either. George re-locked the back room with the keys Terence had given him in the morning, while Terence explored a bit more. Finished, George waited by the door.

"Any clues to report, Sherlock?"

Emerging from around a display, Terence shook his head, smiling. "There's no fooling you, is there? I'll warn Willy. But I'm afraid not. Ready? You can fill me in on my friend the medical-emergency on the way to the Factory."

With a grunt of agreement, George opened the door to the shop and started out. And then he stuck his head back in.

"Would you have gone back in that glass contraption?"

"In a heartbeat," said Terence. "Why?"

"Because maybe we should have. There's another one of those black cars coming up the street, and it looks like it's going to stop right here."

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><p><em>Thank ye. Perchance a review? I do not own<em> Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended._

**_Squirrela_**_: It took me a minute, but I caught up with you vis a vis the last minute change in description. Terence was almost onto something, eh? Thanks for your review. **l****inkwonka88**: I can't think Willy will be in the dark for too much longer about that limo. Thanks for your interest. **pseudosavant**: Me, too… Swudge… is there anyone hearing that name, who wouldn't want all they could get? Look at Augustus… Or maybe don't. His manners leave room for improvement. Thanks for your comments; I'll continue to continue. _


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